


Meet Me After Class

by ninetyfive



Series: It Only Takes a Teacher [2]
Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Car Sex, Everyone Has Issues, Howard is still tired, Journalists, M/M, Masturbation, Outdoor Sex, Sequel, Sex In An Office, Teacher AU, failed wedding proposals, mark tops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:15:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 108,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24522229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninetyfive/pseuds/ninetyfive
Summary: Two successful teachers, Mark and Gary have been living happily together for a couple of months. Gary’s more than ready to take the next step and get married – but proposing to your boyfriend isn’t easy when you’re a pop star, head teacher, piano instructor, resident party planner and Star Wars enthusiast at the same time. Will Gary ever get to ask Mark to marry him?Featuring special guest appearances by Misters Orange and Williams, or the most adorable couple in the world, and Mr Donald, the world’s most tired teacher.
Relationships: Gary Barlow/Mark Owen, Jason Orange/Robbie Williams, howard donald/the coffee machine
Series: It Only Takes a Teacher [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1726054
Comments: 50
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A life-changing date night is in danger of being ruined when Gary suddenly gets a call from his record label.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Meet Me After Class" is the second part of "Mr Barlow", a story I wrote and posted on here a couple of months ago. "Meet Me After Class" is so heavy on exposition that you’ll be able to read it even if you’ve never read the original story. 
> 
> As for chapter 1: chapter 1 contains some smut on a roof and hints of angst. It also features some first-person POV in the shape of Mark's journal, but the rest is in third-person POV as per usual.

# |PROLOGUE|

[Once upon a time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18397196/chapters/43568939), there was a newly qualified teacher named Mark Owen, a former songwriter. Mr Owen was kind and gentle, but he wasn’t very good at class management. He would often spend entire afternoons cleaning up paper planes from his classroom floor. Even though he loved his subject – Creative Writing –, he was soon beginning to wonder if he’d made the right choice by accepting the job.

Then Mr Barlow happened. Gary Barlow was an enigma. A successful pop star and a teacher rolled into one, Gary was easily the most impressive man Mark had ever met. The two fell in love. They’d snog in the archive room on the first floor and meet each other in private in deserted classrooms, not a student in sight.

Then they went on a school excursion to Amsterdam, and they had a bit of a row because Gary had “accidentally” neglected to tell Mark just how famous he was. As in, “living in a penthouse” famous. It was all very dramatic, but thankfully Mark forgave Gary in the end. They had very good make-up sex in a five-star hotel in Amsterdam and did a lot of cuddling afterwards.

Upon their return to England, Mark was told by his head teacher, Mr Harrison, that he was being suspected for exam fraud. He was suspended from his job as a result.

Long story short, it turned out the head teacher was behind the fraud all along! The head teacher got arrested as a result. Gary became the head teacher in his place, running the music department while still continuing to be a pop star at the same time. (I have no idea how he does it either.) He and Mark moved in together, and all was well.

As we followed Mark and Gary’s adventures, we also got the chance to see another relationship blossoming: a courtship between Mr Orange (a Dance and Choreography teacher) and Mr Williams (a newly-appointed support teacher), who love each other very uniquely. We also got to enjoy the long-term relationship between Mr Donald, a strict Dance teacher with a heart of gold, and the school coffee machine. (Mr Donald is always very tired, you see.)

We join the teachers again in October – mere weeks after the events we’ve just described took place. Since, the school has changed irreversibly. Students have become louder. Student numbers are low. Journalists write negative articles about the school constantly. There are talks of shutting down the Music department altogether. Only the bond shared between Gary and Mark has been constant throughout, but even that is about to change.

For there are more challenges to come, and this time even stealing a bunch of exam papers from a locked office isn’t going to save them.

How can it, when Gary is the one who created all the problems in the first place?  
  


# |LESSON ONE: WHAT MARK WROTE|

It’s nine p.m., Friday. It’s autumn. Life is good. Mark’s lessons are going quite well, and he’s really enjoying living with Gary at his penthouse. (Yes, Gary Barlow lives in a penthouse. He _is_ a pop star by night and a teacher by day, remember.) Time has gone by so quickly that the second term of the school year is already coming up.

That evening, Friday, Mark came home from work at seven. Many things have happened since: some good things, but also some bad things. Frankly, Mark doesn’t really know how to wrap his head around it. Tonight has been such a weird mismatch of different emotions that he doesn’t know whether to feel happy or sad.

Desperate to write about everything that has happened to him since coming home, Mark heads to the living room – alone – and removes his red leather journal from his rucksack. It’s an expensive journal that he received as a welcome-back-to-work present from his colleagues a couple of weeks ago. He sits on the sofa and opens his journal on a blank page.

Mark worked as a songwriter before he began teaching Creative Writing, so the words come to him easily. He writes as quickly as he can, barely able to keep up with his own thoughts.

This is what happened tonight, in Mark’s own words. As Mark is quite a bad speller, we will give you the version without spelling mistakes.

_Dear Journal,_

_I know that I usually use this journal for things like doodles and poems and songs, but tonight I’m going to use you as a diary, if that’s all right. Many things happened tonight that were both wonderful and not wonderful at all, and if I don’t write about them then I might be stuck with these confusing feelings forever._

_I’ll start at the beginning. Mr Howard Donald – a dance teacher – came up to me at the end of the school day to ask me if I wanted to work on a special project with him. I work at an art and music school, you see. It’s called the Vocational College of Music and Art, but that’s a bit of a mouthful so we often called it “VCMA”. It’s a school where we have an Art and a Music department, and over twenty different courses like Animation, Songwriting, Percussion and Creative Event Management. I once worked as songwriter, so obviously I work mostly with the Music department._

_Have I ever told you about my favourite colleagues? My favourite colleagues are Gary and Howard, of course, but there are also others. I think I like everyone, actually. Well, almost everyone. I don’t like Mrs Mitchell from the Art department that much, but that’s only because she once got really angry at me._

_I have many colleagues I do like, though. There’s Rob, for example. He’s one of my favourite colleagues. Rob is a really tall support teacher with very pretty tattoos and short hair. He’s the first person I spoke to when I started my job. He has always been very supportive of my feelings for Gaz, meeting me to talk about him and making PowerPoint presentations with information about him. He only became a support teacher this term, but I know he’s really good at it._

_I’m not sure if I’m supposed to write about it in here, to be honest, but sometimes Rob gets a little scared about meeting people socially. I think he calls it anxiety. It means that sometimes when you want to meet Rob after work, he won’t feel up for it. He also struggles with stuff like open days sometimes. And that’s okay. You can be a good teacher and still have your own issues._

_Right now, Rob is in a relationship with Mr Jason Orange, who teaches students how to dance, like Howard. I really like Jason, because he always seems to be floating. He’s always got his nose stuck in a book about meditation and things like that. Jason makes me feel calm. I can see why Rob might fancy him, because Jason is very handsome and tall. He is also one of my favourite colleagues._

_Another colleague I like is Howard. I’ve mentioned him already. Howard is a very good Dance teacher who is always tired and drinking coffee. He’s got two young kids, you see, and they have loads of nappies that need changing in the middle of the night. I like Howard because he can be shy but also very funny. I believe he has walked into me and Gary doing nasty stuff to each other twice now._

_Anyway. Howard came over this afternoon to work on a collaboration with me. It’ll be a sort of collaboration between my Creative Writing lessons and Howard’s Choreography lessons, and I think it’s going to be really good. We spent about an hour talking to each other at the Starbucks on campus and drinking tea and we came up with some amazing ideas that I’m quite proud of._

_Basically what we wanna do is make the students from the Songwriting and Choreography courses work together on a written project about many different dance styles._

_I had promised Gaz that I would drive home with him today, but I thought Howard’s idea was a little bit more important as it had to do with work, so I told him I’d be home later. Gaz didn’t seem to mind. In fact, I soon found out he’d been planning something behind my back!! Can you believe it?? ( I still can’t.)_

_You see, Journal, when I came home this evening, filled with ideas for my project with Howard, Gary told me he wanted to take me up to our roof garden. (Did I mention that Gary is very famous and that he’s very rich and that he can afford a lot of lovely things like roof gardens? It’s not the only reason why I love him, of course. But it helps that my boyfriend is a teacher who also happens to be a very successful pop star.)_

_If you didn’t know, I really like our roof garden. It’s so pretty and sometimes butterflies and bees will fly past. I didn’t even think butterflies could fly this high!! But it’s a really pretty garden. Sometimes I wish I could live on a farm and maybe have a couple of cows and very many trees, but for now, a garden will do._

_Anyway. Gary took me by the hand to the roof (looking very nervous for some reason), and when we got there me heart dropped into my tummy. Gary had redecorated!!! It was hardly the same roof garden as it was before. It now has a pagoda (on a roof!!) and a small pond and many new flowers and some other plants and many decorative fairy lights hanging above our heads. It was so beautiful. I thought I’d seen some very beautiful gardens on telly and in magazines, but this was easily the most beautiful roof garden in the world. I loved it._

_Now I understood why Gary had been so nervous when I came home. He had been working on this the entire time!! Turns out Howard pretended to want to work with me so Gary could finish up on the roof!!!_

_After Gary had finished showing me round, we took a seat on a brand new bench in front of some flowers. Gary was looking at me in a way that still gives me goosebumps when I think about it. We’ve been together since April now (I think that makes seven months), but Gary still makes my heart race in the best way._

_He said, ‘What do you think of our new garden, then?’_

_‘I love it,’ I said. I felt like me tummy was smiling._

_‘What about the new bench? Do you like the new bench?’_

_I looked at the bench (a white one that wasn’t there before), and then at Gary, and my heart did that silly thing when you think you’ve missed a step going down a staircase, except it was a good “missing a step going down a staircase” feeling. _

_I still don’t know exactly why I felt it. I guess it must have been because of all the fairy lights lighting up the place, and Gary looking at me like I’m the only person in the world._

_Above us, stars had appeared in the night sky. You don’t get many nights in this city when the sky is clear and you can see the stars blinking back at you (we live in a very big city, you see, Journal), but tonight I could see every single star there is. It made me wonder if those stars were looking at us looking back at them, and if they could see me and Gaz, and if they might know that we’re together._

_I hope they do. Sometimes, I wish everyone in the world knew about me and Gaz, but we’re still keeping it secret because of how famous Gary is._

_So when Gary asked me if I liked the bench (which wasn’t that special really, compared to everything else), I said, with me heart thumping inside my throat, ‘I don’t know yet. Why don’t we see how sturdy this bench is, and then I’ll tell you?’_

_It took me a lot of bravery to say that, and even more bravery to kiss Gary next. I know that we’ve been together for ages (seven months, like I said), but Gary still makes me feel nervous in the best way. He turns me insides and my brain and my legs into soup, which is probably why it was so easy for Gaz to ask me if I wanted to mess around and pull me on top of him after I’d said yes. All of a sudden I was sat on Gary’s lap, kissing and touching and feeling the rest of me body turning into soup too._

_I felt like I was heating up when Gary started undressing me. (I was wearing a waistcoat and shirt.) He did it so slowly. He still looks at me like he’s never seen me naked before. He still touches my chest and my skin and every other part of me like it’s the first time he’s ever put his hands on me._

_He ran his hands all the way up and down my chest, and I swear to God me heart nearly burst out of me when his teeth grazed my neck. It felt so good. Like I was levitating. Perhaps I was??_

_The stars were still blinking back at us when we squeezed out of our trousers. Gary wasn’t wearing any boxers. I think he planned this evening together a long time in advance. (Although he did take an awful lot of effort folding up his trousers, which I thought was very weird?? He put away his trousers as though they were made of fairy dust. Strange!! But also sort of endearing. I love him.) Then me own boxers went, and I went on me knees to give Gary head._

_I always like that bit best, to be honest. (Or maybe second-best??) It makes me feel good. I love feeling Gary pulsing inside my mouth and sort of tasting him on my own tongue. I felt Gary hardening inside my mouth, and it made me feel even more turned on than I already was._

_(Maybe I should stop showing this journal to me students??)_

_Then I found myself back on Gary’s lap, and the world sort of stopped for a second. Gary looked at me, and I looked at him, and he said “I love you” in a way I’ve never heard him say before. It made my heart burst. I said “I love you” in return, over and over again, as I pushed myself down on Gary’s prick and went to heaven._

_I still get hard thinking about it. I rolled my hips as well as I could, sort of moving up and down Gary’s prick while jerking myself off and feeling him get closer and closer to that spot deep inside. Gary felt warm and hard and so good. It was so wonderful. I still don’t understand how one person can feel that good. Gaz pushes me over the edge every time, making me feel like I’m just one soft touch away from my heart bursting inside. _

_Gary wasn’t just soft tonight, though. He hardly ever is. (In a nice way.) It was sort of hard and gentle at the same time. I could feel his nails digging half-moons into my arse, and his teeth digging into my neck. He’d spank me whenever I stopped moving, so I stopped moving whenever I felt like it. I love it when Gary spanks me, because he’ll always kiss and caress me afterwards. I was on top and doing most of the fucking, but I suppose it was really Gary who was in charge._

_Halfway through, I was thinking about the stars above again. I wonder what we’d look like from above. Would the stars turn away from the sight of me riding Gary’s cock, and Gary moving his hands all over my back? I’ve always been a bit turned off by the idea of fucking in public, but tonight I stopped caring about all of that. Tonight, I loved the idea of someone maybe seeing Gary’s cock disappearing deep inside of me. I wouldn’t mind someone seeing the look on my face as I came._

_We lasted long tonight. I think we’d been on the rooftop for half an hour when I could feel Gary pulsing and leaking inside of me. He had that familiar look in his eyes. I knew he was close, so I stopped what I was doing and lay on my back on the bench._

_I helped Gaz jerk off (it only took a couple of seconds), and he came all over my chest. I followed soon after, and suddenly I was covered in cum. It felt a little dirty, but I also loved it. I love it when – well, I just love it. It makes me feel good._

_Gary then licked the cum off my dolphin tattoo, and I almost thought I’d come all over again. He kissed me on the mouth (one of those sticky kisses), and I tasted myself all over him. I’ve never had a kiss like it._

_We said “I love you” again, and we cleaned up as best as we could (Gary put on his trousers again; still treating it like fairy dust), and for a couple of minutes we just snuggled up to each other on the bench. It was cold (it turned October a couple of weeks ago – I’ve finally been able to wear my favourite scarf again!!), but Gary was holding me tightly so I didn’t really notice it._

_Then Gary kissed my forehead and looked at me in a certain romantic way, and for a second I thought . . ._

_Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now. Gary kissed my forehead and looked at me in a certain romantic way, and he said, ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Something important.’_

_I said, ‘Oh?’ (At least, that’s what I think I said. I can’t really remember, as I was floating.)_

_Gary went on (turning very red and flustered), ‘I didn’t just take you here to make love, to be honest, Mark. There’s another reason. A much bigger reason. You see, I wanted to ask you if you’d–’_

_That’s when my memory goes a bit fuzzy, because suddenly Gary’s phone started ringing._

_Gary answered the phone before I could protest. He disappeared behind a big tree for a couple of seconds (looking very annoyed, I thought, but maybe it was just the fairy lights making his face look a bit different), and when he came back again he looked even more annoyed._

_‘That was me record label.’ Gary looked serious. He never mentions his record label much, but I know he’s been with them for a couple of years. His two most successful albums were released by them, I know that much. (Gary has had three very successful albums and one not so successful one.) ‘Mark . . . they’ve asked me to come and see them. Tonight.’_

_I didn’t mean to let out the upset sound I let out then, but it had escaped my mouth before I could pull it back. ‘Oh,’ I said. Again. I never seem to be able to find the right words when I’m upset. ‘Why?’_

_‘They wouldn’t say. But they made it pretty obvious that there’ll be consequences if I don’t show up.’_

_I don’t know who felt more disappointed, me or Gaz. Tonight had been so wonderful, and now someone was ruining everything._

_I didn’t mean to feel upset at the person at Gary’s record label because I’m sure they must have had their reasons to call (I know from experience how tricky record labels and managers and songwriters can be, because I used to work in the industry myself), but I did feel a little upset. All of a sudden, it felt like the stars that had been blinking back at us earlier had faded out into nothingness. I know that sounds dramatic, but it’s how I felt._

_I can’t remember my exact words now, but I asked Gary if I could come with him. I know that Dorypol records have an office in the city centre somewhere, and it might be fun if I came along._

_Gary must not have liked the idea, because he replied that he’d rather go alone. Also, the record label didn’t know the two of us were an item yet. It’d only complicate things._

_At least, that’s what Gary said. ~~I didn’t agree with it.~~ _

_Gary left after he’d taken a shower and changed, and now I’m sat here, on the sofa in our living room, feeling a bit upset. I feel awful just writing that. I know that Gary’s got a career besides teaching. I know how successful and popular he is. And that fine!! Gary clearly loves being a popstar, and I suppose that sometimes being a popstar involves going to “work” at nine p.m. after you’ve just made love to your boyfriend. _

_I’ve never been a popstar myself, and I never will be, so I guess this is just how things are?? It’s not like I can get mad at Gary for going to work._

Mark looks at what he’s written so far. Writing all of that took him half an hour. It’s riddled with spelling mistakes and words that have been crossed out and replaced by better ones.

He reads his final four or five paragraphs again. His words sound more ungrateful than he intended them. He almost wishes he hadn’t written them at all. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that sometimes Gary will choose his popstar career over his relationship. He’s got three jobs, for God’s sake: his normal teaching job (which he’s very good at), his head teacher job (which he’s also very good at) and his pop star job (which he’s amazing at). Sometimes he’ll have to make difficult choices. Mark should know that by now.

And yet, he feels upset. No, not upset – _disappointed_. Gary has disappointed him rather, and Mark’s got this strange feeling inside his tummy that tonight won’t be the last time their relationship will be paused in favour of Gary’s career.

In fact, it has happened before. Before they moved in together, there were plenty of moments when they couldn’t meet up because Gary was otherwise too busy. (One time, Gary went on a worldwide tour without telling Mark about it.)

Gary may think that he won’t sink underneath the added weight and pressure of being a head teacher, and that he can still be a popstar, and that his students won’t look at him differently now that he’s got an extra job, but the world has changed since Gary released an album last. The _school_ has changed since Gary released an album last. People no longer think the Vocational College of Music and Art is the revered school it was a couple of years ago.

Mark picks up his pen again, and adds, before crossing it out again:

_If I feel “fine” with Gary leaving all of a sudden, then why do I feel like there’s a big stone in my tummy?  
  
_

# |LESSON TWO: WHAT HAPPENED ON THE ROOF|

Let’s go back in time. It’s Friday – a couple of hours before Mark is bound to head to the roof. It’s autumn. Outside, on the school grounds, the leaves on the trees are slowly turning orange. Students and teachers arrive at school every morning before the sun lights up the sky. It hasn’t stopped raining for nearly two weeks.

Every day, local newspapers publish negative articles about the school online: “Former head teacher to stand trial for embezzlement”; “Local art school under MORE scrutiny after head teacher court case enters its first week – is this the END for Gary Barlow’s pet project?”; “Art college under fire after MORE reports of academic dishonesty”; “Ten times pop stars tried and FAILED to have NORMAL jobs”; “Gary Barlow becomes local school’s brand new head teacher – but is he really qualified for the job?”; “POPULAR singer rumoured to be DROPPED from record label after SHOCKING change in career”; etc.

Previously only parents used to worry about the negative headlines, but now the students have started worrying about it too. They talk about it constantly. _Is the school closing? Are_ all _their teachers like that? What about their exams? Will they have to do them all over again? Is Mr Harrison_ really _going to prison?_

No-one can tell them. Not even Mr Barlow, the new head teacher, truly seems to know what’s going on at school. He’s too busy trying to deal with the challenges of his brand new job. He’s still got his head above water – just – but only because he’s got a secret lover no-one knows the identity of.

All the students – apart from the ones not interested in romance, like second-year Songwriting student Naima – can tell that Mr Barlow is in love. He’s always smiling, and his cheeks are always flushed. Whenever someone mentions weddings or kissing or relationships, he becomes flustered. He always seems to be dreaming. It’s obvious that he’s in a relationship with someone, but with whom, no-one knows.

***

At 10:30, Gary is right in the middle of filling out some forms and fantasising about showing Mark their new rooftop garden when Mrs Lulu Kennedy-Cairns walks into Gary’s brand new office. Mrs Kennedy-Cairns is the school’s executive head teacher. In other words, she runs the place. She is also a well-known singer and Eurovision legend. To fans, she’s called Lulu.

The executive head teacher doesn’t bother knocking and heads straight to Gary’s desk with a pink ring binder in her hands. As ever, she looks happy and cheerful; like a pocketful of energy.

‘Mr Gary Barlow – it is _so_ good to finally see someone inside this office who actually deserves being here. I like what you’ve done with the place, by the way! Very atmospheric.’

It’s the first time Mrs Kennedy-Cairns has been in the head teacher’s office since Harrison got arrested, and it couldn’t look more different. Previously a dark office with uncomfortable desk chairs, black curtains and no personal mementos, Gary’s office is cosy and light. There’s a lounge area for Gary to drink tea and relax when he’s sick of being sat at his desk, and the walls are covered from top to bottom with photos from all his favourite colleagues and various celebrities Gary has met over the years. There are at least three photos of Mark,

‘I love the photo wall. Very nice! You have a great eye for detail.’

Gary smiles. He’s only been a head teacher for a while, but he already knows that most of his colleagues tend to compliment him before asking him for a favour in return. ‘Let me guess – there’s something you need me to do for you?’

‘Oh, aren’t you attentive! Here, look at this.’

Lulu hands Gary the ring binder she was holding. Gary leafs through it. It’s a series of proposals for some sort of event, by the looks of it. Each page contains a different idea, put forward by different members of the school council. Some ideas are frankly ridiculous (“Proposal A.7: Students bring their saxophones to school and compete for a trophy for ‘Shiniest saxophone’”), but there are a few Gary likes the sound of, like the proposal for a dance contest to be held next year.

Gary stops at an equally-impressive proposal for a guitar battle. ‘How long have you been sitting on this, Lou?’

‘Ages, to be honest with you. I’ve been trying to organise a special event for the Music department for _ages_ now, but You-Know-Who kept telling me we didn’t have any money for it and that I should ask him again next year!’ Lulu makes a gesture as if to say, _Can you believe it?_ ‘I was hoping we’d finally get the idea off the ground now that _we’re_ the ones in charge, and not – _you_ know. I still get so angry whenever I think about that man.’

‘So do I.’ Gary frowns. He closes the binder. ‘Why _now_ , though? The school’s got a lot of crap to deal with at the moment. Why try organise it now?’

Lulu crosses her arms. ‘Have you read the newspapers lately? There have been negative headlines about the school ever since Harrison got arrested. Even the _BBC_ ran an item about it during the six o’clock news a couple of days ago. They seem to think that just because _one_ teacher was corrupt, every single teacher in the country must be.

‘Parents have been approaching me left and right, asking me if the school will be closing. The students _themselves_ may not mind – they seem quite thrilled about all the drama, can you believe it? – but the rest of the country does. We need to show everyone that studying at this school is still something to be proud of. We used to be one of the most revered schools in the area, and I want to keep it that way.’

‘I didn’t realise it was that bad,’ Gary admits. ‘Everyone keeps telling me that not having Harrison around anymore feels like a weight has been lifted off their shoulders. Mark even texted me earlier, saying he’s never felt this comfortable teaching here.’

Mrs Kennedy-Cairns shakes her head. ‘Unfortunately, how teachers feel is of no relevance to the press. They don’t care about what _we_ think – all they want is a negative headline to sell more papers! You and I both know that. I’m actually surprised the press hasn’t started hounding you yet, given who you are,’ she adds, referring to the fact that Gary is a very famous pop star.

‘I’ve a feeling the press are waiting for a bigger headline to come along,’ Gary whispers, thinking about him and Mark and the rooftop surprise he’s got planned for tonight. ‘Do you really think hosting an event just for the Music department will bring us positive publicity?’

‘That’s the idea, yes. I can’t organise it on my own, though! The proposals from the school counsellors are good, but they’re not _great_. I need _your_ expertise to take it to another level. Basically, I need this to be as big as last year’s summer prom. We all do. I genuinely think this department’s future depends on it.’

Gary mulls Lulu’s words over. It’s true, he does have a lot of experience when it comes to organising big events. He organised the summer prom last year, and a couple of years ago he even organised a birthday party for a member of the royal family. He’s pretty good at it.

However, this . . . event, whatever it’s supposed to be, has a lot of weight to it. It’s meant to put the school back on the map. Does he really want to take on yet another responsibility when he’s only been a head teacher for less than a month?

Other than a couple of meetings with Lulu and the school council last week, Gary hasn’t really had any formal training to prepare him for the new job he’s taken on. There simply aren’t any courses that teach you how to be a head teacher. If he takes on yet another big task like organising an event, he might live to regret it.

‘I don’t know about this, to be honest, Lou,’ Gary admits. ‘I’m gonna have to sleep on this, I think. Is it all right if I get back to you next week?’

Gary’s answer isn’t really a yes, but it isn’t a no either. Lulu seems pleased. Gary’s basically given her the answer she was hoping for, anyway.

‘ _Thank_ you, Gary Barlow. You’ve already given me a much better answer than Harrison ever did. Now, if you’ll excuse me – I have to convince Mrs Stohl that we have to organise an _art_ auction. Wish me luck!’

With that, Lulu leaves. Mrs Stohl is the head teacher of the very different Art department, and she’s a very difficult woman to say no to.

Sighing, Gary glances at Lulu’s pink binder again. He really hopes organising this event, whatever is it, won’t get in the way of his plans for him and Mark . . .

***

Six hours later. Mr Owen is in the middle of handing out pieces of scrap paper to his students inside his classroom. It’s the final lesson of the day, but he’s still got enough energy for easily three more lessons. In case you didn’t know, Mr Owen teaches Creative Writing, which means that his lessons are usually spent working on creative writing exercises. He also taught Art History for a term, but the less said about that, the better.

Mr Owen is loved by everyone at school. He has very long hair and kind eyes, and he has a moustache. He didn’t have a moustache in the previous part of this story, but he does now. Anyone with taste will know that Mark Owen still looks amazing even when there’s hair growing above his lip.

But we digress. There’s a massive digital timer on the Smartboard behind Mark. Once he presses “START”, the timer will start counting down from four minutes to zero.

He puts his remaining scrap paper on a neat little pile on his desk and addresses the students with as much enthusiasm as he can, for most of them look borderline comatose. (It’s the last period of the day, and the weekend is almost here. Needless to say, the students are _not_ excited about Mr Owen’s upcoming writing activity.)

‘Let me explain the activity one more time,’ Mark says, ignoring the impatient groans from some of the students on the back row. They know that when Mr Owen says “let me explain the activity one more time”, it’s going to take him three years. ‘In a couple of seconds, I’m gonna turn on a timer. It’s on the Smartboard, see? You can’t miss it. It’s gonna count down from four minutes to zero. During those four minutes, I want you to write as much as you can. It doesn’t matter what it’s about as long as you do not stop. That last bit is very important. I want you to keep writing until the timer goes off, all right?’

To illustrate, Mark waves a hand at the Smartboard behind him.

A very short student, Sana, raises her hand.

‘Yes, Sana?’

‘What if you don’t know what to write about? Cos _my_ mind’s blank, Sir. It’s nearly five o’clock!’

The students next to her make sounds of agreement. One student has dozed off inside his chair. Mark ignores them. (As well as being very talkative, Mr Owen is quite stubborn.) ‘If you don’t know what to write, then why not write as much? You could just jot down those exact words, you know – “I don’t know what to write”. Write them down, and see what happens.’

Sana looks confused. ‘I don’t understand, Sir. Aren’t all the things we hand in supposed to be _good_? I can’t just write “I don’t know what to write” – you’d only tell me it isn’t any good!’

‘I wouldn’t! Remember, this activity isn’t like the ones you do for your writing portfolio. It doesn’t matter if what you write over the next four minutes is very good or very bad. I just want you to put away your phones and your textbooks and write. That’s all it is – four minutes of writing. I won’t even look at what you’ve written afterwards unless you ask me to.’

A tall student with a beard, Tarik, frowns. ‘What’s the point of writing if you’re not even going to look at it?’

‘This activity isn’t for _me_ – it’s for you,’ Mr Owen explains. ‘This is your chance to get a little better at writing. Cos the more you write, the better you’ll get, you know. You might even become the best writer, ever, in the entire world! You just need to get into the habit of doing it more often. Wait, let me show you what I mean.’

To prove his point, Mark shows the students the red leather journal his colleagues got him. He leafs through it. It’s filled with poems, songs, scribbles and doodles.

Some students make impressed noises. Even though it’s nearly 4:30, and the sun has already disappeared from the sky, Mr Owen has suddenly got nearly everyone’s attention.

‘See this? This is my journal. It’s my most _favourite_ journal _ever_. Every day, I take five minutes to write in it. A lot of it isn’t so good.’ He makes a face as he shows his students a poem he wrote yesterday. ‘This is a poem I did last night. It’s about lizards. And Madonna, weirdly enough. It doesn’t even rhyme. I’m not that proud of it, to be honest. But at least I wrote, you know? Be honest, how many of you wrote outside of school hours yesterday?’

Only two students raise their hands.

Mr Owen makes a face. ‘Well, that isn’t very good, is it? You all want to become songwriters! You need to get into the habit of writing daily. That’s why _I_ have this journal, and that’s why I wanna do this exercise with you right now. Let’s try it now, and then we’ll sort of talk about it afterwards and go home when the bell rings, all right? You could write about the upcoming weekend!’

The students all mumble in agreement. Students always tend to be more willing to do an exercise when you tell them what it means to you personally, and Mr Owen has got that down to a tee.

With the students now looking a little less comatose, Mr Owen turns on the timer. For the next four minutes, the students do nothing but write. It’s an activity Mark loves: free writing.

Some students have filled their papers within just two minutes. Others have stopped writing after just one sentence. Mark deliberately does and says nothing. He doesn’t tell students off when they do nothing, and he doesn’t praise them either. These four minutes are not for _him_ , but for the students. What they write (and how they do it) is not up to him.

One minute left. In the corner of his eye, Mark can see Mr Donald peeking through the window in the door. Mr Donald is a Dance teacher, which means he teaches students of all abilities how to dance. He is one of the strictest teachers the school has, but also one of the most loved. Howard is one of the teachers who helped Mark when he lost his job a couple of weeks ago. He always seems to be holding a cup of coffee.

Howard makes a gesture as if to say, _Have you got a minute?_

There must be something Howard wants to ask him. Mark glances at the clock on the classroom wall. It’s 16:40. His lesson is over soon.

He nods at Howard and holds up five fingers. _Five minutes?_

Howard gives Mark the thumbs-up and disappears. Mark doesn’t get to think about what Howard might need him for, because the timer has just gone off.

The sound is deafening. It sounds like a million alarm clocks are going off at once. Mark hurries to the Smartboard (almost falling over a student’s rucksack in the process) and makes a show of turning off the timer.

The sound stops. He mimics wiping his forehead (making the students laugh) and flashes the students a relieved smile. ‘ _Oof._ That was a bit loud, wasn’t it? Remind me to turn down the sound next time. Anyway! The exercise. Would anyone like to share their work with the rest of the class?’

There’s always one student who wants to share their work, and this time it’s Joey, a tall guy with blonde hair. Mark first reads through Joey’s work to check whether it’s suitable for all ages, then lets the student read his work out loud.

What Joey wrote is so contagiously funny that more students soon follow. Students of all ages and abilities share what they wrote during the four-minute period. Some of it is personal; some of it is frankly absurd, like the student who spent four minutes writing about pepperoni pizza. There are also students who don’t feel like sharing their work at all, and Mr Owen doesn’t force them to.

Then the bell rings, and everyone forgets about the exercise immediately. Students rush out of the classroom. Some stop to say goodbye to Mr Owen, but most of them don’t. Mark is left to pick up their discarded writing exercises from their desks. Sometimes, students get so excited about a lesson being over that they forget about the person who taught it. That doesn’t mean they don’t like the teacher – it just means they like going home a little more.

Mark has nearly finished tidying up the classroom when Howard shows up in the doorway. Mark flashes him a toothy smile. ‘Howard! You all right?’

‘Yeah, I’m not bad. A bit tired.’ Howard, who is usually clutching a cup of coffee (he’s got two very young kids whose nappies always need changing), looks round the classroom curiously. Many desks are filled with messy piles of used coloured paper, and the beamer behind Mark still shows the massive timer he used during his writing exercise. ‘What about you? You looked like you was having fun just now.’

‘I did! We were doing one of me favourite exercises – free writing,’ While he talks, Mark collects more exercises from students’ desks. He deposits them in a waste-paper bin next to the door, not noticing that Howard is becoming more and more nervous by the second. ‘I really love doing exercises like these. You know, creative exercises when students have to do all the work on their own and all you have to do is sort of guide them. I’ve been doing that a lot this term: trying to sit back and relax a bit more instead of doing all the work myself. I’ve got a dozen more little projects and exercises I wanna try out.’

‘Speaking of projects . . .’ Howard’s voice cracks then. He clenches his fists to stop them from shaking. He takes a deep, gathering-up-courage sort of breath, then blurts out, ‘I WAS WONDERING IF YOU’D LIKE TO WORK ON A SCHOOL PROJECTS WITH _ME?_ ’

Howard has very suddenly gone very flustered. There’s a red flush rising up his neck, and his throat has filled with frogs. It reminds Mark of when he asks a shy student to answer a question and you can literally see their face turning into a massive tomato.

Howard is the same now. He is a shy person at heart – which he often masks with clever jests and no-nonsense teaching –, and sometimes talking to other people embarrasses him. He typically doesn’t get embarrassed when talking to mates or students, but he’s positively shaking now.

Why, Mark does not know. He and Howard are mates, after all. They often meet up after work. Howard has been extremely supportive of his relationship with Gaz. Howard even helped him get his _job_ back. So why has Howard just asked Mark if he wants to work on a project together with such nervous gravity?

It must be a pretty very special project, because Howard has asked Mark to sit down. They take a seat in front of Mark’s desk, currently covered in an organised mess of lesson plans, flash cards, coloured pieces of paper, binders, correction tape and a box of sequins.

‘I was thinking about the two of us collaborating on an activity for our students.’ Howard isn’t a man of many words.

‘A collaboration? You mean if the Songwriting and Choreography students had to work on a task together?’

‘Yes!’ Howard swallows, hard. He glances at the clock to check what time it is. The flush that was rising up his neck has now reached his cheeks. ‘Exactly like that.’

If Mark was a naturally more wary person, he might find Howard’s behaviour utterly suspicious. But Mark is not a wary person, and therefore he automatically assumes that Howard’s request must be genuine. 

‘Howard! That’s amazing! I’d _love_ that. We could ask the students to work on a magazine about a certain dance style together! Or maybe – maybe they could write a _poem_ , How! _Oh_ , how exciting. Our students don’t work together much, do they? I bet _my_ students never even think about what _your_ students do. If we find a way to make their disciplines meet – oh, Mrs Kennedy-Cairns OBE would be so pleased!’

Howard can’t believe his ears. Has Mark just _agreed_ to his plan? This is much easier than he was expecting. ‘So . . . you agree? You want to work on this thing with me?’

‘Of course! When do we start? I could start next week, if you want. I could brainstorm some ideas over the weekend, and then get back to you on Monday.’

‘Actually . . .’ Howard’s cheeks turn an even deeper shade of pink. Knowing what’s at stake, Howard has to find his words deep within himself. He hasn’t lied this much since he tried to convince his wife that he had _accidentally_ bought tickets for a car race, and that the tickets just _happened_ to arrive in the post one day. ‘I don’t really ‘ave any time next week. I’m on nappy duty. Maybe we could brainstorm today? At Starbucks? _I’ll_ pay,’ Howard adds, because he’s desperate, and Gary told him bribing would be permitted.

Mark thinks about it. He made a promise to Gary that they’d be going home together today, and if he stayed behind at work he’d obviously have to go home alone. Ever since Gary got his job as head teacher, they’ve constantly been arriving home at different times, which is quite annoying.

On the other hand, Howard seems pretty passionate about this collaborative project. So passionate that he’s turned red and he’s shaking. This must mean an awful lot to him. And who can blame him? The school _has_ been under an awful lot of pressure since He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named got arrested. An exciting project is just what the school needs.

Mark’s mind has been made up. ‘I’ll let Gaz know that I’ll be home later. I’m sure he won’t mind. We’ve got an entire weekend to ourselves, anyway.’

‘You don’t have to postpone your appointment with Gaz just for me,’ Howard stammers. ‘We could meet up next month too, if – if you want?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ says Mark. Meanwhile, he texts Gary that he’s going to be late. ‘I’m sure Gaz won’t mind. See? I’ve texted him now. We can take all the time we need.’

Howard lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. ‘Thanks, Mark. This – this means a lot.’

‘I know.’ Mark smiles: one of those light-up-an-entire-classroom ones. ‘I can tell.’

This makes Howard feel a bit terrible, because this “project” doesn’t mean anything to him at all. It’s just a ruse to prevent Mark from going home early.

Why the ruse? Because Gary is planning a massive surprise in his penthouse, and Mark isn’t allowed to find out about it.

So far, Mark doesn’t suspect a thing. He thinks Howard’s excitement about a potential collaboration is genuine. They go to Starbucks together, and they spend the next fifty minutes brainstorming ideas. Howard has calmed considerably, but he stills keeps glancing at the clock, wondering if he still has to stall for time. 

In the meantime, Gary has already returned home to put the final touches on a rooftop surprise that is supposed to change his and Mark’s lives forever.

Howard has already done _his_ bit. The rest is up to Gaz.

***

Mark comes home that evening with a head full of ideas. He and Howard talked about potential exercises and activities until Starbucks was forced to close its doors. (This made Howard very sad, because it meant he had to stop drinking coffee.) In the end, they came up with an idea not dissimilar to the magazine project that Mark launched for his Art History lessons last year.

On any other evening, Mark might have spent the rest of the day working out his ideas on his laptop, with Gary constantly sighing and complaining that Mark “works too hard”. He’d go to bed with his head still buzzing with ideas, and every now and then he’d accidentally wake Gary by up scribbling another idea in his journal in the dark.

Tonight is different. Tonight, there won’t be any Mark-working-out-his-ideas-on-his-laptop at all, for all the ideas he spent all evening working on fade from his brain the moment he takes his coat off and sees Gary sitting in his living room.

He gasps, audibly. ‘Gaz? Is that _you?_ ’

Mark has to blink several times. He rubs his eyes with his fists. In and of itself, seeing your boyfriend inside your living room isn’t that strange. That isn’t why Mark keeps blinking, or why he suddenly feels the urge to pinch his arms to check if he’s dreaming.

He feels like pinching himself because Gary is sat on the sofa in their living room, wearing a suit _that isn’t black or grey._ It’s more like . . . a seaweed sort of colour? Or pine? One of the other.

It’s easily the most colour Mark has ever seen on his boyfriend: a dark green jacket, tight dark trousers, a white dress shirt that has been buttoned down. When the suit catches the light just right, you can see that the suit consists of an embroidered flower pattern, curling across Gary’s arms like ivy.

It looks _gorgeous_.

Gary wearing a gorgeous suit isn’t really what Mark thought he’d come home to. All the exercises he came up with at Starbucks suddenly escape him. ‘Were y-you already wearing that s-suit this morning?’

Gary smiles. A bedroom smile. He runs his hand down his arm as though he’s merely brushing off an invisible fleck of dirt. He looks smug. Smug . . . but also weirdly nervous. (Like _Howard_ earlier, Mark thinks to himself. Strange.) ‘Do you like it? I thought I’d add a bit more colour to me wardrobe.’

Mark doesn’t know what to say. His mouth makes a high-pitched sound, meaning something along the lines of, ‘Yes, I like your new outfit very much Gary wow you look so good’, then proceeds to stare at his boyfriend like a goldfish.

Gary gets up then, which makes Mark stare even more intensely. From up close, you can see every single flower and leaf on Gary’s suit. The suit must have cost hundreds of pounds. _Thousands_ , perhaps.

Mark has never seen an outfit like it. His mouth has gone so dry that he’s pretty sure he’ll never speak again. He’s seen Gary in many different outfits and various stages of undress, and yet this seaweed-or-pine suit is making Mark nervous as fuck. Why the suit? Why all the ceremony?

What’s going on?

The only thing that makes _any_ kind of sense are the words coming out of Gary’s mouth next, swathed in layers of smugness.. ‘You’ll have to follow me to the rooftop if you wanna know why I’m dressed like this, I’m afraid.’ Gary jerks his thumb at the top floor. ‘Come, let’s go to the roof.’

Mark follows Gary’s gaze. ‘The _roof_ , Gaz?’

‘Yes. The roof.’ (In case it wasn’t clear, Gary and Mark live in a penthouse on the top two floors of a very expensive tower of blocks – Odyssey Tower – in an unknown English city. Meaning, they have a garden. On the roof.)

‘Won’t it be cold?’ Mark’s only wearing a waistcoat and shirt. He rubs his arms. Mark likes being warm and comfortable and cosy, and their roof garden is only one of those things. ‘I was freezing just walking home just now.’

‘You won’t be cold. Promise.’

Mark chews the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t fancy the idea of going to the roof at all. As much as he loves their roof garden, he’d much rather stay here, where it’s warm and cosy and he can wrap a blanket around himself as Gary explains why he looks like _that_.

Gary seems to insist, though. He gives Mark a tummy-plunging smile, and Mark changes his mind – albeit reluctantly. ‘Oh, all _right_ then. I _guess_ I won’t mind going to the roof. But if I freeze to death, Gaz . . .’

Mark slowly follows Gary up the revolving staircase to the top floor. They walk past the sitting room with the cabinet filled with _Star Wars_ memorabilia and head left. Here, they ascend yet another – smaller – staircase.

Gary stops in front of a padlocked door: the last thing separating the rooftop garden from the rest of the house. It’s been ages since Mark visited the garden last, because it’s been so terribly cold.

‘Why have we stopped?’ asks Mark. He looks at his boyfriend, an illegible expression on his face. ‘Is there something wrong?’

Here follows another eye-rubbing, arm-pinching moment, for Gary has just pulled a blindfold out of the inside pocket of his seaweed-or-pine suit and asked Mark to put it on.

An actual blindfold. One of those simple black ones a couple might use in the bedroom. Mark nearly faints.

‘Why . . . are you asking me to put this on exactly?’

‘You’ll find out when you take it off again,’ Gary says in a way that is . . . actually slightly worrying? Heading to a roof in October while blindfolded seems like a really fucking stupid thing to do. Mark quite enjoys living, and if he accidentally fell off the edge of the roof he wouldn’t be able to do much living anymore.

Granted, the roof is filled with plant pots and bushes, so he’d probably walk into a bush before accidentally throwing himself off a twenty-floor building. But still. It’s a bit weird.

‘Gaz, if this is one of those weird _Star Wars_ kinks of yours . . .’ Mark trails off, remembering a certain night involving lightsabers.

‘It’s not. It’s a surprise. Why do you think you have to wear a blindfold?’

This does not reassure Mark in the slightest, but he puts on the blindfold anyway. He hears the door to the roof being unlocked, and then Gary sucking in a nervous breath. He feels his own hand disappearing into Gary’s bigger one.

Gary leads him forward. They walk slowly. Mark can smell a disorienting mix of flowers and trees: a scent that reminds him vaguely of a spring day even though it’s autumn. He was expecting to be stepping into a cold bath, but he actually feels warm – just as Gary said.

After just seven steps (Mark was counting inside his head), Gary squeezes Mark’s hand and tells him he’s allowed to take the blindfold off. Mark removes the blindfold, and suddenly Gary’s brand new suit makes a lot more sense.

The roof garden has been through the most tremendous transformation. It was beautiful already, but it’s even better now. There are plants everywhere you look, from shrubs and small trees to green climbers making their way up architectural-looking cable constructions. The floor, previously a relatively dull patchwork pattern of tiles, has been replaced with wooden beams. The beams appear to converge in the middle of the roof, where the floor suddenly rises up into a wooden platform where one might sit on a sunny summer’s day.

Just as inviting is the large white bench in the centre of the roof garden – yet another thing that Mark would swear wasn’t here when he visited last. Made of wood, the bench is surrounded by yet more shrubs; a small apple tree and a low-maintenance flowerbed.

Behind the bench, a little further away, there also appears to be a pagoda, a pond, a barbeque and a small glasshouse, perfect for growing your vegetables in. It’s as if someone drew up a picture of the most ostentatious roof garden in history, and this here is the end result; a million ideas thrown at a single amazing outdoor space.

It’s what Mark might have pictured while reading _The Secret Garden_ , except this garden isn’t so secret, and Mary’s garden in the story wasn’t so high up from the ground.

Being surrounded by such green splendour should be good on its own, but then Mark spots the fairy lights dangling from a wire above his head, and the stars appearing in the sky just as day turns into night, and he knows for certain that this has just become his new favourite place in the world. He turns to his boyfriend, who’s looking smugger than smug.

‘When on Earth did you do this?’ Mark’s pretty sure Gary was at work all day, stuck in his office, lecturing students and filling in forms. ‘Have we stepped through some sort of portal without me noticing?’

‘I did it today, while we were at work,’ Gary explains. He leaves a deliberate space between this sentence and the next. ‘I actually only finished the work half an hour ago . . .’

Mark thinks back to Howard, looking very nervous and flustered in his classroom that afternoon. Something inside his brain slots into place then. ‘Wait. Does that mean . . . my meeting with Howard today . . .’

‘I asked How to keep you busy while I tried finishing the garden on time,’ Gary admits. He briefly touches the side of his trousers as if to check whether his pocket is still there. ‘Howard’s idea is genuine, by the way. He does want to work on this project with you. I just needed someone to keep you occupied.’

‘So this renovation . . .’

‘It’s all for you, mate.’ Gary takes Mark’s hand in his. Usually soft and warm, Gary’s right hand feels a bit clammy and sweaty; not at all like the soft hands Mark felt all over him when they fucked that morning.

 _It must be nerves,_ Mark tells to himself. Gary’s nervous because he renovated the roof garden for him and wanted to keep it a surprise. There could be no other reason why a red flush has risen up Gary’s cheeks; or why he constantly looks on the verge of saying something important; or why he has touched the pocket of his trousers twice since coming here.

In Gary’s own words, the only reason he did the renovation is was so Mark could have his own little part of the house – a place where he can watch the birds flying past and grow his own vegetables. Mark did say he wanted a garden a couple of weeks ago, and this is it. This rooftop garden is Mark’s to look after; to mould and shape to his heart’s delight.

Mark can’t help but wonder if there’s more going on, though. This is not a surprise you whip up within a day. This is something that has been in the making for weeks, maybe months in advance. It reminds Mark vaguely of a dream he once had, weeks ago . . . something involving an orchestra and candlelight; and Gary holding something small inside his hands . . . but he can’t for the life of him remember what it was about.

That said, it _is_ a really beautiful garden – even more beautiful than the incarnation that came before it. (And much better than Mark’s tiny balcony in his previous flat, which would tremble every time a car rushed past.)

After Gary has finished showing Mark round, they take a seat on the white bench surrounded by plants. Gary looks nervous still.

‘What do you think of our new garden, then?’ Gary asks. He pats his trouser pocket again. Inside it, there’s something that’s even more sparkly than a million stars and fairy lights. He spent all day thinking about it, barely able to get any work done because of it.

‘I love it,’ Mark says. He smiles, and the rest of his body seems to smile with him.

‘What about the new bench? Do you like the new bench?’

Mark first looks at the bench, comfy and study-looking, and then at Gary staring back at him like he’s the only person in the universe, and something inside of him lights up like a switch being pressed.

If Gary renovated just so he could get him alone on a cloudless October night, then Mark would hate to deny him that.

So, as for what Mark thinks of the new bench, he replies, ‘I don’t know yet. Why don’t we see how sturdy this bench is, and then I’ll tell you?’

It turns out that the bench is very sturdy indeed. Over the next half hour, or perhaps even longer than that, Mark rides Gary to the edge. Mark controls the tempo, slowing and speeding up and slowing down again whenever Gary moans into his left ear. Gary’s spanked him so hard that his arsecheeks have turned red.

Apart from an infinitesimal glance at his heap of trousers on the floor, the only thing Gary can look at is Mark; head tilted back, eyes shut, mouth half-open as he rides and jerks himself off at the same time. He’s seen that one expression so many times, in so many different places and positions, but tonight it feels and looks even more special. For the fairy lights are bouncing off on Mark’s face, and the stars are blinking back at them in the sky. It’s as if the stars know what’s happening and what Gary would like to happen ten minutes from now, when he’ll finally reach into his pocket and show Mark what he’s been hiding.

In a perfect universe, tonight’s events would have changed both their lives. They would have walked away from the rooftop feeling like they were walking on air.

Unfortunately, what happened to Mark a couple of weeks ago – being accused of exam fraud and nearly losing his job – has already proven that this is not a perfect universe. This is a universe where sometimes crappy things happen to very good people; where, sometimes, fucking in a rooftop garden means you eventually have to take the twenty-floor journey down.

After thirty minutes, the boys climax almost simultaneously. They clean themselves up using kitchen roll, which Mark has been buying in bulk for some reason, and get dressed in the outfits they were wearing previously: a shirt and trousers for Mark (without the waistcoat) and that sexy seaweed-or-pine suit for Gary.

They snuggle up to each other on the bench. A thick plaid has found its way across Mark’s shoulders. They say “I love you” again and again, and Mark would swear he’s the luckiest person to have ever lived in the entire universe.

Then Gary looks at him in a certain way, and for a second Mark wonders . . .

What if there’s another reason Gary took him here?

What if . . .

Could it be?

No, of course not. It’s far too early for that.

Suddenly, Gary says, ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’ He pauses then. He swallows. ‘Something _important_.’

‘Oh?’ says Mark, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

‘I didn’t just take you here to make love, to be honest, Mark.’ Despite the spectrum of fairy lights lighting up their faces, Mark can see that Gary’s face is turning fire truck red. ‘There’s another reason. A much bigger reason. You see, I wanted to ask you if you’d–’

Gary never gets to complete that sentence, because his phone starts ringing. He answers it behind a big tree at the other end of the roof garden. Mark can’t hear what Gary’s saying. The only thing he can vaguely make out are the words “record” and “e-mails.”

Gary returns ten minutes later. He looks annoyed.

‘That was me record label. Mark . . . they’ve asked me to come and see them. Tonight.’

Mark lets out a disappointed _oh_. ‘Why?’

‘They wouldn’t say. But they’ve made it pretty obvious that there’ll be consequences if I don’t show up.’

Mark didn’t feel cold when he first headed to the rooftop, but he now feels cold all over. He wraps the comfortable grey plaid tighter around his shoulders.

This wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go. Mark wanted to stay here and soak up the smell of the flowers. He wanted to be tangled up with Gary all night and watch the stars above fading in and out behind the clouds.

Mark hasn’t told Gary this, but tonight felt more special than any of the nights they’ve ever spent together. When Gary said ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ Mark could have sworn something was in the air then. He could tell by the way Gary was looking at him that he was about to experience something very special indeed.

Mark is desperate to experience that “special something” anyway. But how, he does not know. The only thing he can think of doing is joining Gary to work. Gary’s current record label – Dorypol records – is so successful and famous that it’s got offices all over the UK. They’re basically the label that turned Gary into the massive pop star he is now, allowing him to teach while he continues to churn out one hit song after another. Only one record label is as big as Dorypol: Hopper records. The two record labels are constantly fighting it out in the charts.

Mark knows that for a fact that Dorypol have a large office in this very city, tucked away between a clothing shop and a laundrette. It is only ten minutes away. You can probably see it from the rooftop.

‘Your record label – they’ve got an office not far from here, don’t they? I could come with you. I – I could help. I’ve always been curious about your pop star job, anyway.’

Mark must not have sounded convincing enough, because Gary starts shaking his head. ‘I think it’s better if I go alone, to be honest. Me record label don’t know we’re together yet, remember? It’d only complicate things. They probably only wanna discuss boring tour stuff, anyway.’

Mark’s heart breaks a little hearing Gary saying that. “Tour stuff” sounds like the opposite of boring. Being able to tour the world is something Mark’s always _dreamed_ of. It would be the pinnacle of his desired songwriting career – the career he had to give up on because not enough people were interested in his songs.

Nobody knows this, but Mark would love to work in the music industry again. He’d be _over the moon_ if he ever got to perform his songs to a paying audience. So why is Gary treating “tour stuff” as if it isn’t important? And why does he keep touching the pocket of his trousers as though he’s hiding something inside it?

‘Gaz – you know you don’t _have_ to go, right?’ Mark tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘You can stay. Here, with me.’

‘I can’t, Mark. I’ve been ignoring their calls for ages. If I don’t go now . . .’

Gary doesn’t finish his sentence. His mind has been made up. He gives his trouser pocket one last reassuring tap and heads downstairs. Mark has no choice but to follow him down, his blanket dragging on the floor behind him.

The sentence _“They probably only wanna discuss boring tour stuff”_ is still ringing in his ears.

Minutes after Gary received the call from his record label, Gary has taken a shower and changed. Mark anxiously watches him putting on his coat and slinging his rucksack across his shoulder in the hallway.

He’s never had to see Gary off in the evening before. Even on workdays, Gary’s always in the penthouse _somewhere_ : working on head teacher stuff in his office upstairs, or meditating in a quiet corner of the house. He’s always close.

And now he is not.

‘I should be back within the hour,’ Gary says. Even Hugo and Cookie – Gary’s dogs – have joined to see him off, with Hugo giving a displeased _yap_ when he reaches for the doorknob. Hugo is such a small dog that many people think he is a cat. ‘I’ll text you if the meeting goes over. Wish me luck.’

Gary leaves without kissing Mark goodbye. Mark doesn’t even get a peck. Or a smile. Not even a squeeze of his hand. All he gets is Gary looking at him with an inexplicably nervous look in his eyes right before he closes the door shut.

That’s it. No peck, no smile, no squeeze. Nothing.

Gary going back to work – his _pop star_ job – leaves Mark feeling utterly confused inside. They had the best ever evening, with Gary even going so far as redecorating the entire roof garden, and now Mark’s all alone, dragging himself to the sofa in his sitting room. _Alone_.

The moment Mark sinks into the sofa – Hugo crawling into his lap –, he feels immensely sorry for himself. The house is massive even when it has two men and their dogs inside it, and now it feels even bigger. It feels lonely. Gary never _not_ kisses him. Gary always gives Mark a peck on the cheek before they go to work. They snog before getting out of the car and heading up the stone steps to the school, a former warehouse.

So why did Gary forget to kiss him? And why did Gary even answer the phone _at all_? They were clearly in the middle of something. Gary could easily have ignored the call, or answered the phone and said, “I’ll call you back later” before kissing him again.

Mark feels awful just thinking all those things. He should not be angry at Gary for leaving. Gary _is_ a pop star, after all. Sometimes he’ll have to choose his career over his relationships. Mark should know that by now.

Desperate to make sense of how he’s feeling, Mark spends the next half hour writing down all his thoughts and questions in his red leather journal. Writing makes him feel a bit calmer, but he doesn’t feel better. He feels upset and disappointed at the same time. He can’t help it. Ever since he nearly lost his job, Mark has been seeking perfection and stability in every single part of his life.

He doesn’t want to feel helpless again. He doesn’t want to be unprepared. He doesn’t want to look forward to an evening with Gary only to have it taken away from him by forces that are out of his control.

They were robbed of not only of a great evening, but also something special. What that “special something” is, exactly, Mark doesn’t know. But he’s pretty sure Gary didn’t renovate the roof garden just to make love in it.  
  


# |LESSON THREE: REGRETS AND MISSED PHONE CALLS|

It’s nine p.m., Friday. Gary’s still sat inside his car in his private parking garage below Odyssey Towers. He promised the person on the phone – Dave; the head of the label – that he’d arrive at Dorypol in ten minutes’ time. That was half an hour ago. 

It was supposed to be so simple. He was supposed to show Mark round, and then . . .

He can’t even think about it. His record label have ruined everything. If his record label hadn’t called, he’d . . . he and Mark . . .

Gary curses loudly. He mustn’t think about it. He’ll just try again later. Next week, perhaps. Next month. Next year, if he has to. It’ll come.

But not today.

Knowing he shouldn’t drive in the state he’s in, Gary decides to check his phone. Today was such a busy day that he has many unread e-mails. He hopes he’ll feel calmer by the time he’s read all of them.

The first e-mail is from Naima, a second-year Songwriter who is hopeless at writing love songs.

  
**_To:_ ** _Gary Barlow  
**From:** Naima Aygün_

_Dear Sir,_

_Is it too late to switch extra-curricular activities? My friend Mimi talked me into signing up for Mr Orange’s dancing lessons but I hate it!! I suck at dancing! I keep falling over and making a fool of myself. I know I already attended your lessons last term but PLEASE can I come? I promise I won’t use your piano as a breakfast table this time._

_Kind regards,_

_Naima Aygün_

_  
_ The next e-mail is from Ms Brooke, the boy-band loving English teacher who joined Mark, Gary and Howard on a school trip to Amsterdam two months ago.

_  
**To:** the music department  
**From:** Ms Brooke_

_Hello all,_

_Has anyone seen my reading glasses somewhere? I left them in my classroom this morning and THEY ARE NO LONGER THERE!_

_Liz_

_  
**To:** the music department  
**From:** Ms Brooke_

_IGNORE MY LAST E-MAIL! It turns out I was wearing my glasses all along!_

_Liz_

_  
_ The next e-mail is from someone Gary doesn’t know, which is never a good sign.

_  
**To:** Gary Barlow; Lulu Kennedy-Cairns  
**From:** T. A. B. Lloyd  
**CC:** Lulu Kennedy-Cairns_

_Dear Mr Barlow,_

_Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Theodora Lloyd. I work as a showbiz writer for the Maily Dail, the UK’s number one newspaper._

_As you are a pop star, who just so happens to work at a school, I have been given the job of writing about the court case against your former colleague, Mr Harrison. Naturally, I have tried writing about these things from a showbiz angle, as this is what I am best at._

_In spite of my constant efforts to report on the court case, many people from all over Britain still have questions that need answering. Many parents have become rightly worried about sending their students to art schools – or, indeed, “vocational” schools in general._

_I was wondering if you’d be available for an exclusive interview with me, Theodora Lloyd. We would discuss the court case, of course, but also the future of vocational education in general. As some of my sources are suggesting that everyone at your school is corrupt, and that the Music department should close entirely, I think everyone in the community would benefit if we cleared the rumours about your school once and for all._

_You’d get compensated for your efforts, of course. I would also like to take the time to talk about your music career, which I know you’ve put on hold in favour of your head teacher position._

_Why don’t we meet up and see what we can do for each other?_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Theodora Lloyd_

_  
**To:** Gary Barlow; Jason Orange; Mark Owen; Robert Williams;  
**From:** Howard Donald_

_Hi guys,_

_Have you read the article the Maily Dail published this morning? The one about the school?_

_It’s bloody ridiculous – this journalist is calling for the school to be closed completely!! Says she’s got “sources” telling her that everyone here is corrupt. What a load of bollocks._

_Howard x_

The next e-mail is from Jason. Jason is one of Gary’s best mates. He is a serene teacher who teaches extra-curricular dance classes and Dance Theory to second- and third-year students. He is currently in a relationship with Rob (or Mr Williams to students).

Gary really likes Jay, who is always calm and collected. Jay is one of those teachers who never stops believing in his students. He wants to know the facts behind a student’s bad exam results before judging them. He’s the opposite of Howard, who often sees things in black-and-white.

In comparison to Jay, who hates removing students from class because he doesn’t see the added value (students are at school to learn; not to be chided), Howard is easily the strictest teacher the school has. He will tell a student that he doesn’t like them without blushing.

However, like Jay, Howard also has a softer side. Outside of his lessons, he is incredibly shy. He hardly speaks during staff meetings. Jason will talk about students for several minutes without stopping, but not Howard. Howard is happy to sit back and listen to everyone.

Both Howard and Jason are the best teachers the school have. They may be very different, but a school wouldn’t be a good school if all the teachers were the same. Every school needs shy teachers like Howard; and composed teachers like Jay; and creative teachers like Mark; and support teachers like Rob; and of course Gary himself, who is a mix of everything. Without people like them, the school would be even worse off than it already is.

Gary continues reading his e-mails.

_  
**To:** Gary Barlow; Howard Donald; Mark Owen; Robert Williams;  
**From:** Jason Orange_

_Colleagues,_

_Can we all_ please _agree not to share and read any tabloid articles about the school and/or the proceedings of the Mr Harrison court case? The articles from the Maily Dail in particular seem to have been written from a sensationalist “showbiz” point-of-view, which won’t do us any good. Let’s continue to think of our school in a positive light, please._

_Regards,_

_Jason_

_P.S. Rob – I’m aiming this e-mail at you in particular._

_  
**To:** Gary Barlow  
**From:** Lulu Kennedy-Cairns_

_Gary,_

_How are you getting on with the proposals I gave you today? The school continues to get negative attention in the press and I think we would benefit GREATLY if we organised something special. Did you read the proposal for the “Bring your pet to school day”? Something like that would be absolutely FAB. Imagine the reaction!_

_I’d love to hear your thoughts x_

_Lou_

_  
_ Gary sighs as he reads the last two e-mails. Ever since he took over as Head of Music, he’s been inundated with requests from journalists, parents, colleagues, the school council and, more recently, Mrs Kennedy-Cairns. Everybody seems to _want_ something from him: journalists want the latest news about the Mr Harrison court case; parents want reassurance that the school isn’t shutting down; colleagues want him to improve their timetables; students want him to stop giving them lectures; and Lulu, of course, now wants to organise a “special event” to make the Music department popular again.

It’s all been a bit Much, to be honest. Gary does love the head teacher job, but he can’t deny that it’s an awful lot of worse. Teachers have gotten burnouts for less, so he needs to be careful.

Twenty minutes have passed since Gary got the phone call from Dorypol. He’s still inside his car, feeling nowhere near calm enough to drive. His record label is only a five-minute drive away.

His last unread e-mail is from Rob. He clicks it, hoping that it’ll cheer him up. It doesn’t.

_  
**To:** Gary Barlow  
**From:** Robert Williams_

_HIYA GAZ,,_

_I’VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT YOU ALL EVENING… I REALLY HOPE THE PROPOSAL WENT WELL… AND THAT MARK SAID YES OF COURSE… I’M SURE HE DID…_

_I’M ROOTING FOR YOU X_

_ROB_

_  
_ Gary’s heart sinks. Of all the e-mails he’s received tonight, Rob’s e-mail is the one that gets to him most. Forget all the e-mails from Lulu and his students, and some tabloid journalist he doesn’t know – Rob’s e-mail has made him feel terrible.

You see, tonight was never about the roof garden. It was never even about making love – it was about _a marriage proposal._ Gary was supposed to ask Mark to marry him.

Tonight.

Obviously, it all went rather wrong. He’s still thinking about how upset Mark looked when he told him he had to go.

Gary can’t say he blames him.

On the other hand, perhaps he tried proposing too soon? He and Mark have “only” been together since April, after all. It’s autumn now. They haven’t lived together that long yet. At school, only a handful of colleagues know that they’re an item.

Should he really be thinking about getting married already?

Maybe. Maybe not. He can’t think straight.

Shaking, Gary reaches into the pocket of his trousers. He takes out a small black box. He flips it open, revealing a gorgeous – and very expensive – diamond engagement ring.

Seeing the ring only makes him feel worse.

Gary puts the ring box back inside his pocket. He hesitates, then gets out his phone. Rob said he wanted to know how he was getting on, didn’t he? Gary might as well phone him up. Rob will say something positive to cheer him up, and then he’ll forget this ever happened and apologise to Mark and try proposing again next week.

Rob doesn’t answer. Gary lets the phone ring ten times until he has to accept that Rob is probably too busy doing something else, like watching telly with Jason, his boyfriend, or lurking some internet forum about aliens.

Gutted, Gary puts away his phone. He doesn’t know who else to call.

The last hour paints a rather unfortunate picture of Gary Barlow’s love life. Here is a man who is so successful and popular that he has got over fifty unread e-mails, and yet he’s failed miserably at asking Mark to marry him.

Tonight was supposed to be _the_ night – but now that his record label need him, who knows when he’s going to get another chance?  
  


# |LESSON FOUR: THE MUSIC INDUSTRY, PART ONE|

Gary Barlow had never planned to become a pop star. His true goal in life was becoming a teacher. He wanted nothing else. Then a talent scout attended one of his pub gigs (which he did to pay for his expensive teacher training), and his dream of becoming a teacher branched out into another dream.

During the fourth and final year of his teacher training, Gary was offered a record deal. He released his first album during his first year at VCMA. The album sold well – his debut single even went to number one –, but he was a terrible teacher. He got many things wrong that year. Most students thought Mr Barlow was unprofessional; often distracted. He seemed to care more about his music selling well and going on tour during half-term. His students even went as far as writing a complaint letter about him, which ended up in a lot of students getting expelled by Mr Harrison because apparently students aren’t allowed to have an opinion.

Even though receiving the letter felt awful, it did lit a fire underneath Gary’s arse. Gary started honing his teaching skills. He read every book about education he could find. Like Mark, it took a bad term for Mr Barlow to grow and improve. Students began liking him.

His record label began liking Gary less. His first album had sold so well that the label wanted him to write another one very quickly. The pressure became too much for him. He got writer’s block, and the record label decided to write the album _for_ him, without his permission.

The album flopped. Gary was dropped. It hit him hard. He took on more responsibilities and tasks at school so that he wouldn’t have to dwell on it. It made him a much better teacher, but he’d lost his chances at being a pop star. He quickly became one of the school’s most loved teachers.

Things took a lucky turn a few years later. Purely by chance, Gary met a guy from a rather successful record firm at a parents’ evening. He told Gary he was a big fan, and they got talking. A week later, Gary signed a brand new record deal at Dorypol records, one of the UK’s biggest record labels.

Gary’s subsequent albums all went to number one. He continued being one of the school’s best teachers.

In the space of just a few years, Gary had become one of Britain’s most successful popstars. It made the school’s popularity skyrocket. His presence attracted dozens of new students. The Vocational College of Music and Art became one of the country’s most revered art schools. Gary even ended up building and financing a brand new classroom: the piano lab on the first floor. It ended up being the country’s most technologically advanced classroom. The school had many things to be proud of.

Then Mr Harrison happened, who, as it turned out, kept student fees to himself to finance his lifestyle. He got arrested for it. As a result, the school is no longer popular. Inspectors from Ofsted visit the school weekly. Many students are thinking about leaving. Parents rightly feel worried about their children’s futures. Local newspapers have been filled with negative articles about the school all school year.

Gary becoming the new head teacher has helped calm things down a bit, but as a result he’s completely forgotten about his pop star job. He keeps ignoring his manager’s phone calls. He hasn’t written or recorded a single song for several weeks. To make matters worse, he’s completely neglected to inform his label about becoming a head teacher. They must have found out via the news like everybody else.

Frankly, things aren’t looking good. Gary may be out-of-this-world successful, but his label can still decide to let him go.

He’s been dropped for much less, after all.

***

Gary arrives at Dorypol HQ about thirty minutes after he received the phone call. He gets out of the car feeling like he’s about to walk towards his death. The ring he was supposed to present to Mark has lost all its sparkle.

Has it really only been thirty-five minutes since he tried to propose? He can hardly believe it. It feels like it happened a lifetime ago. He dreads to think how Mark might feel right now, having his evening taken away from him. And for what? A boring chat with a record label executive?

He should never have agreed to this. He’s still allowed to have a private life, right? He doesn’t _have_ to go to his record label at nine in the evening.

So why is he _here?_ He supposes fear plays a big part in it. He may be famous, but he’s not bulletproof. Mark kept telling him as much last month, when Gary was planning to steal a bunch of exam papers from Mr Harrison’s office. He _knows_ how expendable pop stars are. So when his record label phoned him, telling him there’d be “consequences” if he didn’t show up, he was always going to feel quietly terrified.

The entrance to Dorypol HQ is hidden between two uninteresting-looking buildings. The building isn’t really that pretty, both inside and out. Once you’ve worked in the music industry long enough, you realise that every record label office pretty much looks the same on the inside. You have your records lining the walls; a sleek reception desk; fancy-looking chairs that provide more style than comfort; and lots of people walking the corridors looking like they’ve been awake for forty-eight hours.

Plenty of VCMA students desperately want to work inside these walls, but they’re not such interesting jobs really. It just involves a lot of paperwork and polishing the records on the walls.

The moment Gary approaches the front door of Dorypol HQ, it opens as if by magic. He walks past a reception desk – currently manned by suave executive secretary Josh, whom Gary has seen on several occasions – and heads upstairs.

He doesn’t have to announce his arrival. Five Dorypol bigheads are already waiting for him in a small meeting room on the first floor. Walking into the room and shaking everyone’s clammy hands, Gary thinks he finally knows what disobedient students feel like when they get sent to his office. He feels absolutely terrified. He tries not to let it show.

The person in charge of the meeting is Dave, the head of Dorypol U.K.

Dave is a simple man. He likes 70s music and white men with guitars. Every couple of seconds, he’ll his throat as though he’s about to say something important. His walk is reminiscent of an Emperor penguin. He usually does not worry himself with lecturing his artists at nine in the evening; he has staff to do that _for_ him.

The fact that Dave is here means that things are very serious indeed.

‘Gary. _Hm._ I hope you didn’t mind meeting us at this late hour?’

Gary bites the inside of his cheek as he sinks into a comfortable grey chair. His left hand unconsciously touches the shape of the ring box inside his pocket.

‘Not at all,’ he says. He looks at the other four Dorypol bigheads: three men and one woman to make up the numbers. ‘It’s always good, being here. That is, unless you’ve asked me to meet you because you’ve been reading the newspapers. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?’

Dave smiles. A crooked smile. ‘Indeed, Gary. _Hm_. Indeed. We’ve been trying to contact you since the end of your summer tour, so you can imagine our surprise when we found out two weeks ago that you’ve taken on a brand new job. Very surprised. _Hm._ We were hoping you’d maybe inform us before embarking on a brand new adventure. Instead, we had to find out via the local news. They can’t seem to shut up about it. They talk about the school nearly every day, don’t they, Chris?’

The man next to Dave, Chris, nods. Chris’s only purpose seems to be nodding at everything Dave says.

Dave – last name Dorypol – goes on: ‘Everyone always says that all publicity is good publicity, but we seem to live in a time where people care deeply about wholesome and ethical consumption. You’ll probably remember when one of our female artists turned out to hate cats and everyone stopped buying her music. Some people say that your continued work at a school that had a corrupt former headmaster makes you complicit. _Hm._ This makes people maybe not want to listen to your music anymore.’

Gary scoffs. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. No one thinks _I’m_ corrupt.’

‘Miss Lloyd, the showbiz writer from Maily Dail, does,’ Mona, the only woman in the room, points out. She has a face like a prune. ‘She raised some very valid points about you in the papers yesterday. She even went as far as saying that Hopper records, our direct competitor, is on course of becoming the biggest record label in the country thanks to your actions.’

Gary doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. These assumptions – the idea that he might be just as bad as Mr Harrison – are the strangest claims he’s ever heard about him.

‘You can’t seriously think that I’m like Harrison,’ Gary says.

‘ _We_ don’t, but a lot of people reading the Maily Dail do,’ says Dave. Chris nods. ‘You know as well as I do that journalists love to take down very successful people. _Hm._ Sadly, you already seem to be doing part of the taking down yourself by working at a school that is literally falling apart.’

‘The school is _not_ falling apart,’ says Gary. He’s feeling fiercely defensive. ‘Since when do you have a problem with me being a teacher, anyway? You didn’t have any issues when you signed me.’

‘It isn’t the teaching that bothers us,’ says the woman in the suit, Mona. ‘It’s the head teacher job that bothers us.’

Dave nods. ‘Exactly. _Hm._ Exactly. We worry that we won’t be able to release your next album on time.’

Gary frowns. He wasn’t working on a new album last time he checked. ‘Me next album? What do you mean?’

‘We asked you to work on a new album many months ago,’ says Mona. She sounds patronising. ‘Don’t you remember?’

Gary thinks about it. Now that he thinks about it, his record label _did_ ask him to release a fifth album this year, and he actually agreed to it. He didn’t sign a form or contract or anything, but still. He agreed to it.

Problem is, Gary hasn’t written any new music for ages. You can’t really sit down at a piano and expect a song to magically appear in front of your fingertips. You have to wait for the planets and stars to align at just the right moment. And as far as Gary knows, none of the stars have been aligning for him lately.

‘Frankly, we wonder if you’re still interested in being a pop star,’ Dave goes on. Chris and Mona both nod. ‘You’ve gone quiet on social media since your tour ended. You refused to sign people’s autographs during your school trip to Amsterdam. You’ve shown no interest in making any music since the release of your last album. You do still _want_ to be a singer, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do,’ Gary splutters. He feels a mix of anger and frustration. Can’t these guys see that he’s got more important things on his mind like running a school and proposing to his boyfriend? Of _course_ he still wants to be a singer. Music means the world to him. But so does the school. And Mark. And his students. And Jason and Howard and Rob and Lulu and everyone else. ‘I’ve just been busy, is all. I reckon that when the Harrison court case is over and things have settled down at school, I’ll have time to write again – I promise you.’

‘And when do you think that will be?’

Gary shrugs noncommittally. ‘At the end of next term. January, February.’

‘Then let’s make an agreement,’ Dave says. ‘You will submit new songs for your fifth album in February, and we will release the album that same month.’

Gary can’t help but feel there’s a catch. There always is. ‘And if I don’t?’

‘You’ll be dropped, of course.’


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Directly continued from the previous chapter, we find out that Dorypol U.K. have some very demanding plans for Gary’s solo career.
> 
> Later, Gary tries proposing to Mark again. Featuring Mark topping.

# |LESSON FIVE: THE MUSIC INDUSTRY, PART TWO|

'You can’t be serious. You can’t _drop_ me _._ I’m your biggest artist!’

‘That may be true, Gary, but bigger artists have been dropped for less,’ says Dave Dorypol, the head of Dorypol U.K., Gary’s record label. ‘Unless you give us a very good reason to keep you, we might as well cut our ties right now. _Hm._ ’

Gary has just been told that his record label are expecting him to write and record a fifth studio album in time for February next year. If Gary doesn’t do so, he’ll be dropped.

Just like last time.

Gary cancelled a romantic evening with Mark, his boyfriend, to be told this news. He gave up on proposing to his lover for _this_ ; a dreadful meeting with the head of Dorypol U.K. at nearly ten in the evening – an hour after he and Mark made love.

He feels like a right idiot for agreeing to the meeting only to be lectured by five people in boring grey suits. He’s an _adult_ , for God’s sake. He shouldn’t have to listen to Dave Dorypol talking to him as if he is a disobedient student.

If Mr Harrison hadn’t been found guilty of exam fraud and embezzlement, then Gary wouldn’t be in this position right now. The school would still be popular and successful, and Gary wouldn’t have to worry about keeping the Music department afloat. He might already have written a million love songs about Mark.

Instead, Gary hasn’t written a single song for months.

‘I’m going to ask you one last time, Gary,’ says Dave, with a hint of urgency in his voice that reminds Gary eerily of his former head teacher. ‘Do you promise to release a new album in February and promote it as we would ordinarily?’

‘Technically _you’d_ have to do the releasing, given that you’re me record label and all. I can’t press the records myself,’ Gary retorts. He’s feeling increasingly annoyed and angry. He touches the bump in his pocket, where he’s keeping a ring box and his engagement ring inside.

He wonders what Mark would do under these circumstances; kind, gentle Mark, who never quite managed to get his big break in the music industry. Mark, who’s sat at home, alone.

Mark, who’s never let anyone down, ever.

Mark, who would remind him how connected his different jobs are. If he loses his record deal, it will have the most enormous knock-on effect on the school.

‘D’you know what – I’ve been meaning to write more love songs, anyway.’ Gary swallows hard. ‘I’ll make sure I’ll have an album ready by February. Promise.’

The moment the words leave Gary’s mouth, he regrets saying them. He knows from experience that he shouldn’t make any promises about his music. People will only end up being disappointed and angry.

Dave and the other four Dorypol bigheads seem pretty happy, though.

‘We’re _very_ pleased to hear that,’ Dave says. ‘ _Hm._ Very pleased. I’m sure your fifth album will be a massive success. Yes. _Hm._ I’m sure it will be.’

‘And my head teacher position? You guys clearly aren’t happy I took on the job,’ Gary says.

‘We’re not. _Hm._ But I suppose your single-handedly trying to save a school is good publicity. _Hm._ Yes. You might as well keep doing the job. We’ll have to think about what we’re going to do about the Maily Dail’s articles about you, though.’

Just as Gary is about to say something about this, Dave’s executive secretary – Josh – enters the meeting room holding an empty tray. He’s around the same age as Mark, and just as handsome. He looks like he’d more suited being an actual pop star than having a boring office job.

Josh asks (in a voice that sounds very sleek and well-rehearsed, like listening to the oiled parts of a machine), ‘Would anyone like some coffee? Tea, perhaps?’

Gary hasn’t had anything to drink all evening (he was too busy renovating his roof and snogging Mark), so he’s actually feeling quite parched. Dorypol U.K. have a surprisingly good coffee machine, but then again they _are_ the country’s most successful record label.

Unfortunately, Dave Dorypol has to go and ruin it all. He waves a dismissive hand in the air. ‘No, thank you, Josh. We were just about to finish up, weren’t we, Gary?’

Gary has to bite his tongue. There’s so much he wants to say, but can’t. He’s already worried about how he’s ever going to write enough songs in time for February.

It might seem far away, February, but it is not. When you’re a teacher and a popstar at the same time, time passes as if you’re on a rollercoaster.

It’s the same now: merely five minutes later, Gary finds himself sat inside his car outside Dorypol U.K., wondering what the hell just happened to him.

Gary gets out his ring box again and opens it. The ring is the same ring it was an hour ago, but it doesn’t _feel_ the same. It feels heavier, but not more expensive.

He’s lost something tonight. He’s lost the chance to propose to Mark while gaining yet another weight on his shoulders.

He’ll be even busier now. As well as trying to write a brand new album, he’ll still have to teach, run of the Music department, be a good partner to Mark and organise the special event Lou asked him about this morning.

She wants to organise something special to get the Music department back on the map (and prove to people like Ms Theodora Lloyd that the school isn’t as bad as they think it is), but frankly Gary can’t be arsed to do it.

Has he bitten off more than he can chew?

***

Gary gets home ten minutes later. His dogs don’t greet him as he takes off his coat. They do, usually.

The lights are still on inside the living room. Gary can see the light of the television flickering across the walls. The sound of the ten o’clock news is on in the background.

Gary finds Mark lounging on the sofa, the same plaid blanket from the rooftop still draped over his shoulders.

Mark looks so out of place in their massive living room that Gary almost daren’t disturb him, but he must. If he ever wants to have another chance at proposing, Gary needs to make sure that Mark doesn’t hate him for leaving.

‘Hey, Mark.’

Mark looks up slowly. He looks drowsy. Tired. As if he’s just woken up from a dream. ‘Gaz. You’re back.’

Gary lets out a quiet sigh of relief. Mark’s usual way of dealing with “I’m very angry at my boyfriend” is by not doing any talking. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m back.’

‘What time is it?’

‘It’s a quarter past eleven. Mark . . . I’m so sorry I left. I should never have answered that call.’

Mark manages a small smile as he pats the empty space next to him, inviting Gary to sit. Mark’s had so much time to think about Gary leaving that he doesn’t feel that angry anymore. His anger faded the moment he sat down to write in his red leather journal.

He actually feels a bit silly about all the things he wrote in his journal. Gary has three jobs now, doesn’t he? There are always going to be days when Gary suddenly has to go to work in the evening. He’s just going to have to get used to it.

The only thing Mark still feels upset about is _how_ Gary left, and the “special” something that he feels like he’s missed out on. Mark can’t help but wonder if the rooftop surprise and the love-making that followed it were leading up to something . . . but what, he does not know.

Then again, it’s not like it matters now. Gary came back in the end, didn’t he? He’s _here_ now. That’s all Mark cares about.

‘I don’t mind that you left,’ Mark explains slowly. He turns down the sound of the television. ‘I understand that sometimes people are going to ask you to head back to work and that there’s nothing you can do about that. I’m not angry about that. I mind the _way_ you left. I hardly got to say goodbye to you. I was worried sick, you know. I kept wondering, “What if something’s wrong? What if this is what our life is going to be like now?” I couldn’t stop thinking about that. I wish we’d had the chance to talk about what your record label wanted to meet you about. If we had, I might not have minded the way you left so much.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’ Gary makes an apologetic face. ‘The way I left didn’t feel good to me afterwards either. I worked so hard on surprising you with the new roof garden, and then I fucked it all up. I should’ve asked you if me leaving would bother you.’

‘It did,’ Mark admits. ‘I felt like our evening had been cut short. I couldn’t stop thinking about what our relationship was like before you told me you were famous. For a second I wondered if we had travelled back in time. But I was just being silly, wasn’t I? We’re the strongest couple I know.’

‘You’re right about that.’ Gary was trying his hardest to arrange his face into something solemn-looking, but he can’t help but smile. ‘We _are_ strong. I mean, we survived a school trip to Amsterdam and everything. Not every couple can say that. I still feel guilty about leaving, though.’

‘Don’t be. You’re back now. That’s all I care about.’ Mark gives Gary a sweet peck on the cheek, and all their worries fade. All is well. 

For now.

‘So we’re good?’ Gary asks again, just in case.

‘Yes. We’re good. Always.’ Mark rewards Gary with another kiss. ‘So what did Dorypol want to talk to you about?’

‘They want me to release a new album next year. They’ve pretty much warned me that if I don’t write and record new songs on time, I’ll be dropped.’

Mark gasps. ‘Can they do that?’

‘Technically, yeah.’

‘But . . . why?’ Mark shakes his head. He thought Gary was popular. Three of his albums went to number one. His most recent tour – the one that took place last summer – was a massive success. Gary is the main reason why so many young people sign up for courses at the school’s Music department. ‘You’re one of Dorypol’s most successful artists, aren’t you? Why threaten to drop you _now?_ ’

‘Because I’ve been ignoring their calls all month. And because they’re pretty annoyed about me becoming head teacher without letting them know. I think they’re scared that the school being unpopular means _I’ll_ become unpopular too. They think people will stop listening to me music. That’s why they want me to get a new album out – to remind people that I’m still a pop star as well as a head teacher. I think they’ve lost faith in me, Mark.’

‘Oh _,_ Gary, that’s _awful._ What did you say?’

‘I said yes to recording another album, of course.’ Gary sighs.

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Because I want to prove everyone wrong, I guess. There’s this tabloid journalist who’s been writing really bad things about me, and I worry that if I don’t put out new music soon, people will start believing _her_ word over mine.’

‘Do you mean the articles by Ms Lloyd, the showbiz journalists?’ Mark makes a face. ‘I haven’t read them, but Rob has. He told me they were awful.’

‘They are. She’s been saying I’m corrupt and everything. The problem is, I’ve a feeling everyone at Dorypol thinks she’s right.’

Gary can feel Mark squeezing his hand for comfort. Usually, Mark touching his hand makes Gary feel better. Tonight, feeling Mark’s much smaller hand disappearing into his own only makes him feel sad, for it reminds him of what could have been and what didn’t happen. He and Mark should be engaged by now. They should be discussing potential wedding venues. They should be admiring the ring on Mark’s finger.

Did he make the right decision, saying yes to another album?

‘I worry about this record, Mark,’ Gary admits. ‘I haven’t written a new song for ages. I just haven’t got the time, I haven’t. Me days are so filled with head teacher stuff and worrying about work that by the time I finally get home, I just wanna lie on the sofa and chill out. I don’t want to spend me entire weekends working on this record. I’m scared that I’ve robbed you of our time together by saying “yes” to them.’

_So am I,_ Mark thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud. Mark just squeezes Gary’s hand again, over and over.

‘This’ll be your fifth album, won’t it?’ Mark says reassuringly. ‘You’ve got loads of experience when it comes to writing pop songs and making them successful. More experience than anyone I know. It’s why your students love you so much. You’ll get through this, Mr Barlow. We both will.’

Gary smiles. ‘It means a lot, knowing that you believe in me. It makes me wonder if I should just write twelve songs about _you_.’

‘I don’t think your record label would like that.’

Gary makes a face. ‘I suppose I could always save the songs about you for the re-release. Do people still do those, re-releases? I’m so out of the loop when it comes to music lately. I bet you’re pleased you don’t work in the music industry anymore, Mark – it’s bloody confusing at times.’

Gary intended this as a throwaway comment about the music industry, but it hits Mark like a stone.

Just a couple of hours ago, Gary was talking about “boring tour stuff” as if touring is the most terrible thing in the world. Now, he’s suggesting that Mark not working in the industry anymore is a _good_ thing. It boggles Mark’s mind.

Why does Gary keep treating his pop star career as this terrible inconvenience?

Yes, Gary having to go to “work” at nine in the evening _is_ annoying . . . and Mark wouldn’t like to be forced to record an album either . . . but _still_. Still. It’s better than having no career in the music industry at all.

You see, Mark would _love_ to work in the industry again. He’s written one new song a day ever since he got his red leather journal. He’s reluctantly started to revisit every song he wrote a couple of years ago, trying to figure out how to make them better.

Sometimes he spends so much time jotting down lyrics in his free time that he forgets to plan his lessons.

Mark can’t remember when he first started feeling this way. Probably when he got his red leather journal from his colleagues. For as much as Mark genuinely loves and enjoys teaching, he still misses the period of his life when all he had to worry about was arriving at writing camps on time.

He misses writing songs for a living. He misses hearing his songs being performed by C-list pop stars. He misses having contacts in the music industry. He misses dreaming about being able to go on tour.

It’s why Gary’s comments bother him so much: he’d love to be able to teach part-time and spend the rest of his time writing songs for a living.

If Gary can do it, then why can’t he? There are plenty of teachers who’ve got second jobs next to their teaching.

He can tell never Gary about this, though. If he told Gary that he wants to get back into writing, Gary would invest all his remaining time and money into making that happen. He’d have no more social life. Mark does not want to do that to him.

So, when Gary says, ‘I bet you’re pleased you don’t work in the music industry anymore,’ Mark bottles up his feelings and replies, ‘It _is_ confusing, isn’t it? It must be so frustrating sometimes, working in an industry that’s moving so fast. I can barely keep up with my Release Radar on Spotify! I don’t envy you and your many jobs, Mr Barlow.

‘Then again,’ Mark goes on, smiling, ‘I’m just happy I’ve got a job at all, you know. I never want to be unemployed again. I enjoy teaching way too much. Well, apart from M_SW1A. They’re _awful._ ’ And he makes a face.

‘Really? M_SW1A? Why?’

‘They seem to _hate_ me,’ Mark says. ‘I worry about that group daily, you know. They’re all really misbehaved. Everyone says so – even Howard, and he’s the strictest teacher we have!’

Happy to change the subject, Mark rather loses himself in a long monologue about his least-favourite group, which is full of students who never bring their textbooks.

By the time Mark finally reaches the end of his story, he has already forgotten about what they were talking about earlier. Likewise, Gary stopped being worried about his album – and the life-changing opportunity Dorypol took away from him. 

Gary will work on his album _one_ day. He _will_ propose to Mark, one day.

One day, but not today. Tonight, he’s just happy to listen to Mark talking his ears off, and watching his eyes light up whenever he talks about a student he does like. Their special moment on the rooftop may have been interrupted by forces out of their control, but it doesn’t really matter.

As long as Mark is still willing to hold his hand and kiss his cheek, Gary will survive whatever his record label throws at him.  
  


# |LESSON SIX: ROB GIVES GARY ADVICE|

It’s Saturday morning. The weekend has arrived. Mark is still in bed, dreaming of the kinds of things teachers dream about (lesson plans and Sir Ken Robinson's TED talk about whether schools kill creativity).

Gary has been up for the past two hours, locked inside his office on the top floor of his penthouse. Currently, he is writing the agenda for next Thursday's staff meeting. It is a very boring job, but now that he’s a head teacher he sometimes has to do very boring jobs.

He has also been thinking about last night, of course. He’s been thinking about his missed proposal, but also the album he promised he’d write.

As well as writing the agenda for the upcoming staff meeting, he has been brainstorming ideas for his fifth album on a notepad all morning.

So far, Gary’s albums have all been filled with piano-led love songs. He only writes up-tempo songs very occasionally. It’d make sense if he released yet another album with piano-led love songs and no dance songs, but he’s not sure if he wants to go down that road again. He wants to make his next album special. He wants to prove to the world that he is still perfectly capable of writing a proper pop song. Just because he is now a head teacher doesn’t mean that he’s forgotten how to write a song.

He just wishes he hadn’t lost all his creativity in the process of getting a brand new job.

Gary knows that writing songs is like riding a bike and that you’ll never really forget how to do it, but his current lack of creativity does complicate things rather. His brain is empty. Completely empty. So while he knows for a fact that he hasn’t lost the inert ability to write a song, he does lack the spark of inspiration to make a song happen.

It’s fine, though. He only agreed to his record label’s request a day ago. If he writes a new song every week or every two weeks, he should have an album ready by the time next term kicks off. He’s got more important things to worry about right now, like finishing the agenda for next Thursday's staff meeting and figuring out when he’s going to propose to Mark again.

Thinking about his failed proposal makes Gary stop what he’s doing. He stares at his screen: a Word document with all the items for next week’s staff meeting. His eyes aren’t really taking in the words. Every now and then he’ll think about Mark again, and the ring in his pocket, and the rooftop, and the look on Mark’s face when he told him he had to go, and the computer monitor will go blurry in front of him.

Gary’s convinced that if the record label hadn’t called, he and Mark would be engaged by now. There is no doubt in his mind. He and Mark would be engaged.

But they’re not engaged, and Gary wonders if they ever will be.

He keeps wondering if he tried proposing too soon. He supposes there isn’t really an obvious rule as to when you should propose to your partner, but he’s still terrified of getting it wrong. Mark’s never even _mentioned_ marriage to him. What if last night was a sign? What if it was a sign from the universe itself, telling him that he ought to take things slow?

Gary looks at the clock. He’s been trying to work on his agenda for over an hour now. He’s also got a pile of e-mails from students and colleagues that he still needs to get through, but it is never a good idea to e-mail students when you’re tired.

He’s going to take a break. And he knows exactly how he’s going to spend it.

Gary closes the door of his office, just in case. He doesn’t want Mark to overhear this next phone call.

He takes his phone out of his pocket and selects Rob’s number in his phonebook. The phone rings twice before he hears Rob’s familiar voice, as cheery as ever.

‘Hiya, mate,’ says Rob. ‘How are you?’

‘Not bad. Yourself?’

‘I’m good. I’m good. You know, a bit tired; but other than that, good. I’m seriously glad the weekend is here, Gaz – I was so busy at school yesterday that I didn’t come home until about seven in the evenin’. I noticed that you tried phonin’, by the way. Me and Jay were kinda in the middle of “cute couples stuff”, if you know what I mean, so I couldn’t answer. I hope you didn’t need me for anythin’ serious?’

Gary makes a face. Did he not tell Rob that he was planning to propose to Mark? ‘ _Er_ , I kinda did, to be honest. I was surprising Mark with the new garden, remember?’

‘Oh, yeah, the garden! Did Mark like it?’

‘He did, but . . .’ Gary frowns. Maybe Rob doesn’t remember that he was going try propose? Rob does tend to be rather forgetful even when it comes to very important things. ‘You do _remember_ why I’d decided to surprise Mark with a new garden, right?’

‘Of course. You wanted Mark to have a little place of his own.’

‘There was a bit more to it, mate. Remember? I told you the _real_ reason for the renovation five days ago.’

Silence.

Rob swears loudly.

‘Gaz! _GAZ! YOUR PROPOSAL!_ ’ Rob is shouting so loudly that Gary has to hold his phone several inches away from his ear. ‘OH MY GOD! GAZ! I FORGOT! HOW DID IT _GO?_ ’

‘That’s why I’ve been trying to call you.’ Gary’s sight goes blurry. He minimises the Word file on his computer, showing a photo of him and Mark at the five-star hotel in Amsterdam. ‘I fucked up, Rob. I didn’t get to propose in the end.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’

‘But _how?_ ’ Gary can hear the surprise in Rob’s voice. ‘You spent _weeks_ organisin’ everything. I thought you had it in the bag, mate.’

‘So did I, but . . .’ Gary runs his hand through his hair, making it go all messy and sticky-uppy. ‘It all happened so fast, Rob. I showed Mark round and then we sat down on the new bench in the roof garden and then we had the most _amazing_ sex—’

‘Nice,’ says Rob.

‘—and then when I thought I was about to get me ring out and propose, me record label phoned me up and said they needed me to come over. They told me that if I didn’t go see them, there’d be serious consequences.’

‘And let me guess – you said yes?’

‘Yeah, mate.’

Gary can almost see Rob rolling his eyes and making a face. ‘I seriously can’t believe this, Gaz. You were about to propose to your loving, handsome, amazing boyfriend, and suddenly Dorypol ring you up and ask you to come over and _you say yes?_. I genuinely don’t know what goes on inside that head of yours sometimes.’

‘I know. I still get mad when I think about it. But anyway, I went over and I met the guys from Dorypol and they told me that they want me to put a new record out or else they’ll drop me, and then I got home and told Mark the news and he seemed pretty okay about the whole thing. But I didn’t get to propose to him, is the problem. I don’t even know if I still should. I keep wondering if I tried proposing too soon. Howard only proposed to his partner after six years.’

‘You’re not Howard, though, are you? I mean, sure, Howard’s got the perfect life with his wife and his kids and his cats and his perfect class management skills, but Howard is Howard, and you’re _you_ , Gaz. Just because Howard waited six years to pop the question doesn’t mean _you_ should.’

‘So what are you saying?’ Gary bites his lip. ‘Should I try again?’

‘Of course. You should keep trying. And if it doesn’t work out, you should just try again.’

‘What if Mark says no, though?’

‘He won’t. I can feel it in me tummy, Gaz. Although – I suppose I did have vegan pancakes for breakfast this morning, so maybe it’s just the pancakes making me tummy feel upset. Don’t tell Jay this, Gaz,’ Rob adds in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘but I _hate_ his vegan pancakes. They’re full of healthy stuff that I can’t pronounce and I wish I could feed them to me dog.’

Silence. Footsteps.

Rob’s voice goes suddenly very high-pitched. ‘Oh. Good morning, Jay. I was just telling Gary here about your vegan pancakes we had this morning. Did I like them? Yes. Yes I did, Jay. Oh, you’re just about to head to the supermarket to buy more vegan pancake ingredients? I can’t _wait._ ’

Gary can vaguely make out the sound of Jason smooching Rob’s cheek. (Or the other way around. It’s hard to tell over the phone.) There are more footsteps (Jay walking away), and then a door shutting closed (Jason leaving, Gary presumes).

Rob goes on, in a more normal voice (for his boyfriend has just gone to the supermarket to get more food), ‘I know we were just talkin’ about _your_ relationships issues, Gaz, but I don’t suppose you know how to tell your boyfriend that you no longer want to eat their vegan pancakes because they taste like fuckin’ cement?’

Gary snorts. ‘I can’t help you with that, I’m afraid, Rob. _My_ boyfriend makes _amazing_ vegan pancakes.’

‘ _My_ boyfriend makes _amazing_ vegan pancakes,’ Rob reiterates in a mocking voice. ‘I hate you and your perfect vegan-pancake life.’

‘Not _that_ perfect. I failed to propose, remember?’

‘Right. Well. I’d just propose again, if I were you. Like, not _today_ , obviously. But maybe tomorrow. You could make him breakfast in bed or something and, I don’t know, hide the ring inside Mark’s food. Maybe you should warn him about the ring before he accidentally swallows it, though. Or you could just show him the ring while he’s eatin’ porridge or whatever it is you two eat in the morning.’

‘Omelette and toast.’

‘Well, that’s sorted, then. You _will_ show Mark the ring while he’s eatin’ his omelette and/or toast, and he _will_ say yes and you _will_ be the happiest couple in the world while _I_ continue to pretend I like Jay’s vegan pancakes. I do love him, really. I love Jay more than I’ve ever loved anyone. But I don’t love his pancakes as much. I mean, who makes pancakes using flaxseed? I don’t even know what flaxseed _is_ , Gaz. It sounds like a disease.’

Gary laughs out loud. Rob can always make the simplest things sound dramatic. ‘If I promise to propose to Mark again, will you promise me that you’ll be honest to your boyfriend about his pancakes?’

‘I _suppose_.’

‘ _Rob?_ ’

‘Yes. Okay. Whatever.’ Rob doesn’t sound very enthusiastic.

‘I’m sure Jay won’t mind if you tell him,’ Gary reassures Rob. ‘It’s not the end of the world, you not liking his pancakes.’

‘I _know,_ but I don’t want to be difficult. You know what I mean? I’m already a serious handful when it comes to our relationship, Gaz. I don’t wanna make things even worse by makin’ a big thing out of his fuckin’ pancakes.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well. _You_ know.’ Gary’s pretty sure he can hear Rob sighing. ‘There’s a lot of stuff that I don’t feel comfortable with doin’, and I don’t want to make meself look like there’s _another_ thing I don’t like about him. I feel like I’m always saying “no”. “No” to going out on workdays, “no” to having sex with him . . .’

Gary hums. Rob told him a couple of weeks ago that he fancies guys romantically but not necessarily sexually, meaning that he’ll kiss them but not sleep with them. It’s just not something he feels like ever doing. 

Gary’s pretty sure Jay doesn’t mind. ‘Jay’s okay with your not sleeping with him, right?’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘Then what’s the problem? Look, I’m not the best when it comes to relationships either, all right, Rob, but relationships are all about feeling comfortable and accepting each other. I mean, there’s loads of stuff that me and _Mark_ haven’t got in common either, but that’s _fine_ , that is. It’s part of what makes our relationship unique. It’s the same with you and Jay. As long as you’re honest with each other, you’re sorted, you are.’

‘So you think I should tell Jay about me not liking his pancakes?’ Rob still sounds uncertain. ‘You think I should be honest to him?’

‘Yeah, Rob.’

‘And in the meantime, you will propose to your boyfriend?’

‘Yeah, Rob,’ Gary splutters.

That settles it, apparently. Gary promises Rob that he will try proposing to Mark again, over breakfast tomorrow, and Rob promises Gary that he will be honest to Jay about not liking his vegan pancakes.

Easy as pie.  
  


# |LESSON SEVEN: MARK AND GARY HAVE BREAKFAST|

We meet Gary again a day later. It’s Sunday morning.

While Mark is still asleep in their king-sized bed, surrounded by pillows, Gary is already preparing breakfast in bed for him.

He has made enough food for an entire family. He can’t help himself. He loves cooking. He’s planning to present the food to Mark on a bamboo breakfast tray in their bedroom.

He has also hidden a ring box inside the sugar pot.

Following Rob’s advice that it’s never too soon to propose, Gary has retrieved his ring box from the suit he was wearing on Friday evening and hidden it inside a small sugar pot. Mark likes his tea with two spoonfuls of sugar, so eventually, there will come a moment when Mark has to lift up the lid of the sugar pot and reach inside it with his teaspoon.

By the time Mark makes the second and finally scoop, he should hopefully discover that something is hidden inside it. This is when Gary will get on his knees on the floor and propose.

Contrary to two nights ago, when Gary hadn’t quite rehearsed his words, he has now written down his speech on a piece of paper. He’s hidden it inside the pocket of his pyjama trousers. It goes somewhere along the lines of, “You are my favourite person in the entire world and I would like nothing more than to make that official.” Something like that. It’s quite emotional. Gary welled up three times while writing the speech. Mark will probably turn into a blubbing baby when hearing it.

Of course, there’s always a chance that seeing the breakfast in bed will make Mark slightly . . . excited. Mark always gets weirdly aroused by the simplest domestic things (last Friday night’s rooftop surprise being a recent example), so it will probably be the same now. Gary is fully expecting there to be “thanking-your-boyfriend-for-making-breakfast-in-bed” sex before he finally gets round to pointing out the sugar pot. He’s even dressed for it: Gary’s deliberately put on a brand new pair of pyjamas. They are slightly see-through.

In the kitchen, Gary looks at his breakfast tray again. He should be finished by now. He goes through the list of things he wanted to make and do.

He has made an omelette.

He has made and a ham and cheese toastie (Mark’s favourite).

He has placed the sugar pot with the ring box in the middle of the bamboo tray.

He has added some napkins and cutlery.

He looks again.

He goes through the list inside his head one more time. The tray looks weirdly empty. Has he forgotten something?

Then he remembers. He still needs to make _tea!_ Mark won’t be able to use the sugar without any tea to put it in, so tea is a pretty important part of his proposal.

Gary puts the kettle on and prepares two tea infusers with loose Earl Grey tea. He waits. Three minutes later, the kitchen fills with the sound of the water boiling and the kettle rumbling. He pours the boiled water into a cute teapot that the Donald family got him for Christmas. He puts it on the bamboo tray along with two teacups. The tray is so large that he could probably still fit an entire croissant.

He’s done. He’s got everything he needs.

Slowly, Gary heads to his living room.

He enters enter as quietly as he can. Right on cue, Mark rouses from his sleep. The first thing his sleepy eyes see is a pyjama-clad Gary Barlow holding a massive breakfast tray. His expression goes from sleepiness to confusion to sheer delight.

‘Have you made breakfast in bed for me, Gaz?’ Mark asks. He turns on his bedside lamp and rubs his eyes to make sure he isn’t seeing things. ‘You have, haven’t you? Oh – you _shouldn’t_ have.’

Gary (wearing brand new pyjamas) sits on the edge of the bed and hands Mark the tray.

Mark doesn’t know what to say. This is easily the most food he’s ever seen in the morning. It’s hard to know where to look, for there’s so _much_ of it. It’s slightly overwhelming.

‘Did you do all of this for me, Gaz?’

‘Of course. I thought you deserved it after what happened two nights ago.’

‘Oh, _Gaz_ ,’ Mark says. He can feel a warm glow in his chest. ‘No-one’s ever made me breakfast in bed before. _Thank you_.’ He kisses Gary sweetly on the lips before staring at the tray again. He’s already finding new things that he didn’t notice ten seconds ago.

Gary’s gone all out this morning: there’s an omelette, a ham and cheese toastie (his favourite), a cup of loose-leaf tea and even a homemade breakfast biscuit on his saucer. He’s not sure what looks more appetizing: the ham and cheese toastie or Gary, wearing a different pair of pyjamas than he was last night.

Pyjamas that are slightly see-through.

Mark hasn’t seen the pair of pyjamas before. They really _are_ see-through.

As much as Mark loves his omelettes and ham and cheese toasties, he does love Gary a little more. When their date night on the rooftop was interrupted two days ago, he felt like he was robbed of something special. Something really good. He still doesn’t know what that “special something” was, exactly, but he still wants it. He still wants to continue what he and Gary were doing to each other on Friday.

They might as well do it now.

Mark carefully puts away the tray, leaving it on his bedside table. This is rewarded with a puzzled look from Gary, who spent so much time preparing the breakfast while Mark was still asleep.

‘Are you not hungry, mate?’

‘I am. I’m _very_ hungry. But there’s something I wanna do first, Mr Barlow. Something _just_ as good.’

There’s the flicker of a smile on Gary’s face. He _knew_ it. He can always tell when Mark wants him. It’s always subtle, but it’s always obvious to _him_ , who has spent so many months learning how to read Mark’s expressions.

The hints are all there: Mark licking his lips, his legs parting _just so_ , his eyes brighter than ever. When you’ve spent over half a year keeping your relationship secret, there eventually comes a point when a certain smile becomes shorthand for “I love you”; or a quick squeeze during a staff meeting becomes a way of saying “Let’s fuck when this is over.”

Gary pretends to be clueless. ‘If you don’t wanna eat me breakfast right now, then what _do_ you wanna do?’

Mark grins. One of those light-up-a-room smiles that he reserves only for Gary. ‘Why don’t you put on that blindfold from two nights ago and I’ll show ya?’

Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, Mark suddenly conjures up the blindfold Gary asked him to put on before they headed to the rooftop two nights ago.

‘Is this my punishment for heading to Dorypol on Friday, Mark?’

‘Yes,’ Mark says, short and to the point.

Gary looks at the blindfold in Mark’s hand, then at the sugar pot that hides the ring box and the treasure within. He can’t decide what he wants more: Mark to lift the lid of the sugar pot and discovering the ring within, or feeling Mark all over him.

_Why not both?_

Nervous, Gary takes the blindfold from Mark’s hands. It feels soft and silky against his palms, like pure silk running through his fingers. Feeling the blindfold in his hands gives him a bit of a thrill.

The moment the blindfold slips over Gary’s eyes, the room goes black. The mood in the room changes. Gary can see no more. Mark – smiling rather – takes control. He pushes Gary into the soft mattress, flipping their positions like a mirror image.

Other than a quick check of consent, Mark’s planning to keep Gary mostly in the dark, not telling him when or where he’s going to touch him. He wants to keep Gary guessing all morning.

It’s what he deserves after Gary kept _him_ guessing two nights ago.

Thanks to all the guessing and not-knowing-what-Mark-is-about-to-do-to-him, Gary has the best morning he’s had in ages. Never mind the ring he’s hidden inside the sugar pot – this is almost as good as proposing, this. Perhaps even better.

Gary’s left to depend on his remaining senses as Mark straddles his lap and kisses him. He cannot see, but he can still smell Mark all over him. He can still feel himself burning up as Mark digs his hand into the front of his pyjama bottoms. He cannot see, and yet he allows every touch and kiss Mark puts him through.

Gary doesn’t know how, but he’s managed to take his own clothes off. He’s dumped his pyjamas on the floor. He is now completely naked apart from his _Star Wars_ socks.

His blindfold isn’t going anywhere. Mark’s still refusing him the ability to see, which is why it comes as such a delightful surprise when he suddenly feels two wet fingers probing his entrance and pushing inside.

Gary lets out a sound that is half a sob, half a moan. He’s not used to this.

‘Do you want me to finger-fuck you, Mr Barlow?’

Gary doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s been blindfolded before; he’s had a man straddling his lap before; he’s had breakfasts in bed being interrupted by sex before, but he’s never done _that_. Not with Mark. It’s always Gary doing the fucking. Always.

Mark asking him this is very new indeed. It’s different. It’s bloody intimidating, to be honest.

But does he want it? Yes. Yes, he does. He wants it _badly_ – so badly that when Mark asks again, Gary says yes a thousand times over.

He really hopes it won’t be the last _yes_ they utter this morning. For there’s still a ring box hiding inside the sugar pot, and he can’t wait for Mark to lift up the lid.

It’d be so perfect, wouldn’t it? Having the best ever sex, and then following it up with getting engaged. This time, it feels like it’s finally about to happen.

Or maybe he’s just overly optimistic because Mark is fucking him so well.

Mark is good, of course. He’s done this before. He fucks Gary with two wet fingers moving in and out. Gary begs for more. He quickly gets what he’s asked for: Mark’s mouth pecking his thighs, and then a soft tongue replacing two fingers. He alternates his tongue with his fingers moving in and out, preparing Gary’s hole for something far bigger and better.

It’s not that hard to get Gary in the mood. Mark has a moustache now, remember, so every kiss sends him into overdrive. People with boyfriends who have scruffy moustaches really have all the fun. People who say otherwise are just jealous and silly.

Gary keeps begging for more, still. He’s turned into a right slag, moaning all sorts of dirty things under his breath. Most of them are aimed at Mark, of course.

Soon, Mark’s tongue is replaced by something equally foreign. It’s big and hard and it’s moving into Gary’s hole and it’s not quite Mark’s cock. It’s a vibrator. Gary almost falls off the bed when Mark turns it on for him.

Now the blindfold makes sense. Where does Mark keep finding these things? 

‘You like this, Mr Barlow?’ Mark sounds annoyingly smug. He pushes in the vibrator at an angle, making Gary writhe and arch his back. It’s the first time he’s seen Gary like this – moaning and arching and clutching the bedcovers underneath.

It makes Mark push in the toy deeper – faster. Gary only begs for more. If he wasn’t wearing a blindfold, his eyes would be shut tight; a pained expression on his face. ‘Do you want the real thing? Do you want me to fuck you for real?’

Gary only whimpers and moans. He can barely talk. The only sounds his mouth seems capable of making are nonsensical monosyllabic phrases.

Mark asks again. He slows down his movements. ‘Do you want me to fuck you with my prick, Gaz?’

Finally, Gary finds his voice again. His entire body feels like it’s been charged by electricity. ‘Don’t ask. Just – just do it. Oh _Jesus_.’

Mark does as he’s told. Gary keeps the blindfold on. He swears when he can feel Mark’s definitely-real cock disappearing inside of him.

They’ve never done this before. It’s always Gary who does the topping – never Mark. Mark feels warm and hard and long – longer than Gary is used to.

He’s a different fuck when he’s topping, Mark is. He’s hard and rough. If Gary were able to see him, he’d see his boyfriend rolling his hips and biting his lip, his chest covered in sweat.

It doesn’t take long for Gary to reach his orgasm. He’s unbearably close. It only takes two minutes of Mark fucking him with his long prick to make Gary come spontaneously all over his own stomach.

That is when the blindfold goes. He removes it just in time to see Mark climaxing inside of him at almost the same time. It’s such a delightfully warm feeling that Gary knows for certain that he’s doing the right thing, proposing to Mark.

It is as if Gary has died and gone to heaven, except instead of seeing his life flash before him, he sees only fragments of nights he’s spent with Mark: making love to him in Amsterdam; snuggling up to each other in bed; making Mark come for the first time at the summer prom; touching his hand underneath a desk during a staff meeting; meeting Mark for the first time and knowing for certain that this is the man he wants to spend the rest of his life with.

All of those wonderful memories make Gary want nothing more than to propose to Mark right now, with their naked bodies tangled up underneath the mattress, the smell of omelette filling the air.

When someone fucking you feels this good, then _of course_ you’ll want to get married.

They cuddle. They kiss. They catch their breaths. They put on their pyjamas to cover up the marks they’ve left on each other’s skins. They hold each other tight.

Gary’s body is still trembling in the best way. It’s been so long since he last bottomed that he can still feel the physical memory of Mark fucking him. If he were to close his eyes, he’d go right back to five minutes ago, feeling Mark deep inside of him and experiencing both pleasure and pain.

Then follows breakfast. Mark retrieves the breakfast tray from his bedside table (without the teapot, because he’s too scared of accidentally pouring hot tea all over himself, as he’s very clumsy).

He puts the tray on top of a pile of pillows on his lap. Although the omelette has now cooled down, the food still looks as appetising as it did fifteen minutes ago.

‘I still can’t believe you did all of this for me,’ Mark trills. He points a finger at a triangular ham and cheese toastie. ‘May I?’

Gary’s too nervous to speak. He just nods, then stares as Mark tries his toastie. He tries a little bit of everything Gary’s made for him, from the toastie to the omelette to the breakfast biscuits with nuts in them.

There’s enough food for both of them to have their equal share of food, but Gary has lost his appetite. His tummy is so full of butterflies that he wouldn’t be able to eat even if he wanted to.

Mark notices. ‘Are _you_ not going to eat, Gaz?’

Gary shakes his head. ‘I already had some toast while you were sleeping. Me tummy feels a bit upside-down, anyway.’

‘Let me guess – it feels like you’ve got a bunch of butterflies inside of you, right? That’s what _I_ always feel like when _you_ top.’ Mark sees Gary raising two eyebrows at him. ‘It’s a nice feeling, isn’t it? It’s different when you – _you_ know. It feels good. Like a bunch of butterflies. Making love to you always does.’

Gary doesn’t know what to say to that. As much as he genuinely loved Mark fucking him, his tummy feels “upside-down” not just because of what just happened in bed, but because of what he would _like_ to happen, and what he hopes will follow five minutes from now.

It’s not as if Gary can actually _tell_ Mark as much, though. Mark hasn’t even got round to drinking his tea yet! Without tea, Mark will never use the sugar pot, and if he doesn’t use the sugar pot he will never find the ring box within.

Unfortunately, Mark seems keener on talking about sex than drinking his tea. He’s still holding an unfinished piece of toast inside his hand, a curious look on his face. There are breadcrumbs all over the front of his pyjamas.

‘I’ve always wondered, when did you first – _you_ know.’ Mark blushes. He takes a bit of a detour to the question he wants to ask, blabbing away while Gary tries to make Mark think of Earl Grey tea via telepathy. ‘I know you’ve been with both men and women, but I was wondering if – were there ever relationships where it was, you know, our roles reversed. Cos I could tell you were enjoying yourself just now.’

Gary blinks. He stops his attempts at telepathy. ‘Are you asking me if I’ve always been a top, Mark?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘I’ve been both.’ Gary blushes. He doesn’t talk about this much. ‘It depends on how I feel and who I’m with, I guess. There was one guy who always – but it didn’t last. I enjoyed it, though.’

‘So if I told you I’d like to have more mornings like today, would you . . . ?’

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Gary says. He finds that he means it. ‘All you have to do is ask.’

Mark’s face breaks out into a delighted smile. ‘Really? Wow. Thank you. I’ll – I’ll keep that in mind.’

Gary gives an amused shake of his head. Mark doesn’t notice, for he’s too busy shoving an omelette into his mouth, a deep blush spreading across his cheeks. Out of all the things Gary thought they might do on the day of their proposal, Mark asking him if they could change positions more often wasn’t one of them.

He supposes it’s fitting in a way, though. There are a lot of things they haven’t tried yet. They haven’t been on holiday together yet. They haven’t yet walked into school hand-in-hand. They have yet to watch a scary movie together. Gary still wants to ask Mark when he got his dolphin tattoo and if it hurt. He still wants to take Mark to see one of his concerts.

After all, the best parts of being in a relationship with Mark have always been the tiny things. Tiny things like the dimples that appear in Mark’s cheeks when he laughs, and the fact he still gets lost at work. It’s those dimples and that smile and Mark still-getting-lost-at-work that make Gary want to propose more than ever.

He just needs Mark to drink tea to make that happen. He tries telepathy again. Mark doesn’t seem to receive the message. He keeps eating. Gary is going to have to go about this less subtly.

Nervously, Gary says, ‘You must be quite thirsty after all that food. Why don’t I pour you some tea?’

‘Oh, would you? Thank you, Gaz. That’s so nice of you.’ Mark makes a sound of approval when he sees Gary taking the teapot from his bedside table. ‘Is that a new teapot, Gaz? It’s very pretty.’

Mark is so busy talking and gesturing and doing that “staring into infinity” thing that Mark always does that he doesn’t notice that Gary’s hands are shaking. In fact, Gary’s entire body seems to be shaking, still. Gary wasn’t feeling nervous when they were fucking, but he does now. He’s terrified.

Mark doesn’t notice. He takes the teacup Gary has just filled with tea for him, puts his teacup to his lips and makes a face. A face that says “this is the worst tea I’ve ever tasted”.

‘That’s nice,’ Mark lies. He takes another sip. Another facial expression. ‘Very nice.’

‘It’s too strong, isn’t it?’ Gary asks, because Mark is too polite to say so himself.

‘A little bit. Sorry.’ Mark makes an apologetic face.

Gary takes a deep breath. His heart starts racing. This is _it_. ‘You could add some sugar, if you want?’

‘Ooh – good idea, Gaz. I like me tea more with sugar, anyway. I always add two spoonfuls, have you noticed? Do you have a spoon somewhere? That’s a lovely spoon. Where did you get it? _Harrods?_ Gosh, it must have been expensive. Do you shop at Harrods much? I’ve never been.’ (Etcetera.)

Slowly, Mark takes the sugar pot from the tray. He takes the lid off. He grabs the teaspoon Gary has offered him . . .

He digs the spoon deep into the sugar . . .

Gary nearly has a heart attack . . .

Mark gracefully scoops up a spoonful of sugar . . .

One more second – one more scoop – and then . . . and then . . .

Gary panics. Completely. He cries, ‘Stop!’ and Mark stops. His hand is frozen mid-air. The spoon is stuck between his fingers.

The spoon held at an angle, half of the sugar has accidentally ended up in Mark’s lap.

‘What’s wrong?’ Mark asks. He looks clueless.

‘It’s – it’s the sugar,’ Gary stammers. He has gone very red in the face. He doesn’t know how, or why, but all of a sudden he is deeply regretting proposing.

He can’t do it. It’s too soon.

How the fuck can he propose to Mark when he came home late last night? How can he propose when he promised his record label that he would record a brand new album only yesterday? How can he promise when his school – the very school where they met – is currently being judged by tabloid journalists left and right?

It’s not possible. It’s the worst idea in the world.

It’s too _soon._

‘I – I don’t think you should take sugar anymore.’ Gary can’t stop staring at the sugar pot.

Mark drops the spoon onto the tray slowly. ‘Why?’

‘B-because that stuff is bad for you, sugar is. I – I read an article about it the other day,’ Gary adds, as though that explains everything. His heart is beating like mad. He feels hot and clammy all over. He can’t stop his brain from replaying the thought _I don’t want to propose anymore_ over and over, like a mantra.

If he proposes to Mark now, when the fuck are they supposed to get married? In February, when he has to release his album? Or in September, when the Mr Harrison court case will finally have reached its conclusion?

He should have thought this through.

_It’s too soon,_ he thinks again, begging Mark not to look at the contents of the sugar pot.

‘Please, Mark.’ Gary tries to smile. ‘Please don’t take your tea with sugar.’

Mark looks at the cup of tea on his tray. It is extremely black. When he tasted it earlier, he actually felt a bit nauseous, it was so strong. ‘But . . . how else am I supposed to drink this? It’s a _bit_ strong, you know.’

‘I’ll make you a new cup,’ Gary says. His eyes have gone very big and bright. ‘I could make you green tea – you _love_ green tea, don’t you? I’ve heard it’s very good for you, as well. But don’t use any sugar, please. I’m only saying this cos I care about you, you know, Marko, mate,’ he adds, and he finds that he means it more than ever. He caresses Mark’s arm softly. ‘That includes what you put _inside_ of you, too, you know.’

Mark snorts. ‘Like _you_ , you mean.’

Gary turns firetruck red. ‘No – I – I meant . . .’

‘I know. Just kidding. If you don’t want me to take sugar anymore, then I won’t. I don’t want to get cavities, do I? Drinking Earl Grey with sugar kinda makes me nauseous, anyway.’

Smiling, Mark puts away the breakfast tray – including the sugar pot with the engagement ring inside it – and gives Gary a big smooch on the lips.

Gary almost cries.

Their breakfast neglected, Mark can finally pull Gary closer. He can feel Gary’s entire body radiating against him, making Mark feel warm in return. He doesn’t seem to notice that Gary is shaking. How can he, when this morning has otherwise been so wonderful?

‘I care about you too, Mr Barlow,’ Mark whispers, meaning it with his entire being. ‘I care about you more than I can say.’

‘Even though I came home late last night?’

Mark just nods.

‘But what if it happens again?’

‘If it does, then I suppose we’ll just have to deal with it.’ Mark smiles. Gary lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

When he looks back on this on this moment ten minutes later – discreetly removing the ring from the sugar pot while Mark has his back turned to him–, Gary will feel a massive sense of relief, not guilt. He does still want to propose to Mark more than ever, but today wasn’t the right moment. He realizes that now.

His proposal will have to come when the school is finally back to normal – and when Gary no longer has to work on an album he doesn’t really want to release.

Until then, getting married will just be a faraway dream. A good dream, but still – one that feels very far away indeed. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this stand-alone chapter, we learn a little bit more about Jason and Robbie’s relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic, I've written Rob as being biromantic instead of bisexual. This chapter explains what that means.

# |LESSON EIGHT: READING THE PAPERS|

May, a couple of months ago. It’s the month Gary fell head over heels in love with Mark, but this chapter isn’t about Gary.

Rob has a date tonight. He’s not that sure if it _is_ a date. Jason is coming over, whom he fancies very much, and he _supposes_ it _is_ kind of a date when your crush is coming to visit your house. But it doesn’t _feel_ like a date. Why, Rob does not know.

When Jay first asked Rob if he could come over, Rob said “no”. Jay, being Jay, stopped asking. Eventually, Rob figured that maybe it wouldn’t be _that_ bad if Jay came over as long as they planned the visit a long time in advance so Rob could prepare mentally and clean his living room.

With that in mind, Rob asked Jay if he wanted to come over “two weeks from now”. Jay said yes, smiling as he always does, and so their not-a-date was agreed.

It wasn’t until two hours before Jay’s arrival that Rob suddenly realised that he has no idea what he and Jay were going to do exactly. They’ve been doing quite a lot of kissing, so it’d be nice if they did more of that. But other than that, Rob hasn’t really thought about it. He supposes they’ll watch the National Geographic channel and have a talk and snog and maybe hold hands on the sofa. In other words, they’ll have a casual evening in. Not a date. Definitely not a date.

Then Jay eventually comes over, wearing the best outfit Rob has ever seen any man wear, and Rob starts to wonder if maybe this _is_ a date after all. He’s still not entirely sure, to be honest.

After Rob has shown Jay round (deliberately avoiding his bedroom), they sink into Rob’s red sofa. Jay spots a pile of papers on Rob’s living room table, and they quickly fall into a conversation about an article they both read online that morning. (“MYSTERIOUS apparitions spotted around MOON’s SURFACE: our first CONTACT with aliens?”) As ever, they can’t seem to agree on the subject, with Rob being convinced that the “mysterious apparitions” were definitely aliens, and Jay believing that they were just asteroids.

They start arguing in the way two best friends might argue, with Rob coming up with arguments that definitely wouldn’t hold up in court, and Jay using a lot of clever and long words that only make Rob want to kiss Jay to shut him up. It’s all good fun, and in the end, they agree that they’re both a little wrong and a little right.

Jay kisses Rob on the mouth for being so lovely and opinionated, and Rob goes a bit red because he still has to get used to the fact that someone as handsome as Jason Orange is kissing him. He still has to pinch himself every time it happens, it’s so good.

Then things escalate. Jay’s hands move to Rob’s knee.

Rob’s brain completely crashes, like a computer. Having someone touching your knee is not necessarily a bad thing, but it _is_ when that hand then starts to move up. And up. And nearly up to a place that Rob _definitely_ didn’t think about when he invited Jay over.

He pushes Jason away from him.

‘Jay. What are you doing?’ Rob’s eyes have gone very big.

‘I’m – I thought . . .’ Jay’s brain has momentarily become loose from his head. He can no longer remember all the fancy words that he normally uses. ‘Isn’t this what you invited me for, Rob?’

Rob blinks. ‘Invited me for _what?’_

‘To make love. With me. Inside your house.’

Rob looks in all the world as though he has only just discovered the meaning of sex. He laughs nervously. ‘Yeah, about that, Jay – I don’t think that’s gonna happen,’ he blurts out.

Any other person would have struggled to this confession, but not Rob. Not when he’s had several weeks and months and years to think about it. It’s why his not-a-date with Jay never really felt like a date to him because in his mind, dates always – inevitably – lead to sex. ‘I mean, you’re a handsome man, Jay, but I don’t want anything to do with _that_.’ And he waves a hand in the general direction of Jay’s nether region.

‘Just now, or – ever?’ Jay asks. He sounds calm.

‘Ever. Don’t get me wrong – I like you. A lot. But when I told you I like men, I didn’t mean I like having sex with them.’ Rob makes an apologetic face. ‘Sorry. I’m sure you’re very good in bed and that, but I don’t think I’m ever going to wanna do it with you.’

‘Okay.’ Jay doesn’t seem that bothered.

‘Okay?’

‘I’m okay with you not wanting to have sex with me,’ Jay explains. He smiles. One of those million-pound smiles... ‘If the only thing you want to do with me is cuddle and watch telly, and nothing else, Rob, then I’m not going to deprive you of that. I’m sorry for assuming that you invited me here for reasons that weren’t on your mind.’

Rob can hardly believe his ears. ‘So . . . we’re cool, Jay?’

‘Indeed we are, Rob.’ And Jay kisses Rob on the forehead. ‘Again, I’m sorry. I should have asked.’

Rob goes a bit weak at the knees. He has gone very red and flustered, for Jay’s never kissed him on the forehead before. It feels very warm and very comfortable.

‘I – I still think you were wrong earlier, by the way,’ Rob mumbles. It’s another case of “Rob jumping from one subject to the next”; one of the things Jay loves about Rob. ‘I really do think the apparitions were aliens.’

‘There’s a full moon tonight,’ Jay says. He pulls Rob closer to him. To Rob, it feels like he might as well be held by a cloud. ‘Why don’t we go looking for aliens ourselves? Assuming that you’re right, of course.’

‘So instead of having sex, we’re just going to stare at the moon all night?’

‘Why not?’

Rob smiles. He sniffles a little. He guesses their not-a-date has turned out to be a proper date after all. ‘Thanks, Jay.’

And they spend the entire night staring at the moon.

***

October. Friday evening, a couple of weeks ago. It’s the evening that Gary was planning to propose to Mark, but this chapter still isn’t about Gary.

At the other side of the city, in a small but cosy apartment overlooking a shopping centre, Rob and Jay are enjoying their date night. They meet up almost twice a week now. Sometimes, Jay spends the night. Jay now knows Rob’s apartment so well that it’s almost as if he lives there himself.

There are many things Jay likes about Rob. He likes Rob’s smile. He likes his eyes: bright and sort of green. He likes Rob’s mind and the way it will often jump from one topic to the next. He likes Rob’s love for his students. He likes how hard Rob worked to become a support teacher. He likes Rob’s taste in music. He likes the tattoos on Rob’s skin – even the ones Rob himself hates. He likes that every tattoo tells a different story; providing a different tale for each date night.

There are also things Jay does not like. Rob is often insecure. He snores a little. He is so stubborn and keen on stability that it is impossible to meet up with Rob spontaneously. (One time, Jay had shown up uninvited, and it made Rob’s anxiety flare up in the worst way.) Rob also does not cook, ever, and he genuinely doesn’t know his aubergines from his courgettes. When he last tried to cook, he spent the entire time being terrified that he was accidentally going to set his house on fire.

You kind of get used to it after a while, though. Rob being Rob means that Jay always knows what to expect from him, which makes the unexpected kisses and cuddles ten times better.

There is _one_ thing Jay really hates about Rob, though. Rob’s doing it right now. You see, Rob has spent the past half hour browsing the internet, a big frown on his face. He has not let go of his smartphone since they turned on the telly in the living room. His thumb is in a constant state of scrolling and clicking.

Their evening has otherwise been wonderful (as ever, it featured much kissing), but it’s obvious that Rob is currently more interested in looking at his phone than looking at his boyfriend.

Don’t be fooled – Jay does not hate technology. People often joke that he has no phone and that he still uses a fax machine. This is not true. Jason Orange has a phone and an internet connection like any other 21st-century gentleman. He loves Wikipedia. He uses Word and PowerPoint to prepare his Dance Theory lessons. He shares Rob’s love for online forums. He much prefers writing e-mails over having a phone call.

He’d still like to have Rob’s full attention, though. They _are_ on a date, after all.

‘Rob?’ Jay smiles at Rob from the other side of the sofa. He can see that Rob is currently reading an article on the website of the _Maily Dail_ , i.e. the worst newspaper in history.

‘Yes, Jay?’

Rob barely looks up from his phone. In many ways, he looks like a bored student during one of Jay’s theory lessons. Jay figures that is a pretty good comparison to lead with. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Rob, but have you noticed how much you currently resemble one of our students?’

Rob looks up. He frowns. He’s been doing a lot of that today, frowning. Frowning and moving his thumb down his screen. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that you’re just spent the past hour glued to your smartphone.’

Rob scoffs. ‘You sound like a teacher.’

‘I _am_ a teacher. And as a teacher, I am inherently programmed to find it annoying when someone would rather look at a screen than at _me_.’

Rob rolls his eyes. Jason always does this: he’ll spend ages trying to get to the point because he’s been thinking too hard about how to say it. ‘You could have just told me it bothers you from the _start_ , Jay. There doesn’t have to be this massive build-up. If my phone bothers you, just tell me. Does me phone bother you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. _Why?_ ’

Jay reaches out for Rob’s hand. Their fingers lock for a quick squeeze. ‘Because I know how much things you read online bother you. Remember when your students had filled out an online survey, and you spent all night worrying about it? I don’t want you to feel similarly weighed down by something you’ve seen on the internet. You’ve had a frown on your face ever since you turned your phone on. I wonder why that might be?’

Rob chews the inside of his cheek. Jay is right: a lot of things on the internet bother him very much. If someone so much disagrees with one of his posts on his favourite forum, he will automatically assume that everyone on the forum hates him.

He tends to be similarly affected by newspaper articles, which is what he’s been looking at. Howard sent him and his mates a rather negative article about the school earlier this morning, and he hasn’t been able to stop looking up articles about the school since.

‘I know you told me not to, Jay, but I’ve been reading online newspapers again. Have you read the link Howard sent us? It’s terrible. _Terrible,_ Jay. The school might as well close!’

‘Is that what you’ve been reading, then? Articles about the school?’

Rob nods. He shows Jay one of the articles Howard sent them earlier. He still hasn’t been able to process its contents fully, for letters and words tend to change and blur in front of his eyes.

Jay fixes Rob with a quietly judgmental stare when he sees the article. It’s titled “All teachers at CRITICISED art school are CORRUPT, says exclusive SOURCE.”

Jay pinches the bridge between his eyes. The article was written by one Theodora Lloyd, a well-known showbiz journalist with questionable opinions about pretty much everything. ‘Rob, how many times do I have to tell you that you should never read anything Howard sends you? He’s a great man, Howard, but his judgment is often . . . questionable, to say the least. I think it’s fair to second-guess a man who thinks certain toothpastes cause low grades in schools.’

Rob shrugs. ‘Howard is like me. He likes conspiracies.’

‘You like harmless conspiracies that have to do with UFOs. _Howard_ reads into conspiracies whose very aim is to debunk everything scientists have irrevocably proven to be true about the world as we know it. They’re two very different things, Rob. The moment we start distrusting our scientists, mankind will be at a loss.’

Rob frowns. ‘Has this dialog always been in the story, Jay? I feel like the writer added it last-minute to prove a point.’

‘Maybe so.’ Jay shrugs.

‘You might as well read the article, though,’ Rob adds. ‘You know, to get back to the main plot and stuff.’

Despite his reservations, Jay reads the article quickly. His expression becomes more and more “disapproving teacher” with every second that passes.

**All teachers at CRITICISED art school are CORRUPT, says exclusive SOURCE**

By Theodora Lloyd

_THINGS AREN’T LOOKING GOOD FOR SCHOOLS IN THE NORTH OF ENGLAND. Ever since the former head teacher of the Vocational College of Music and Art, Mr C. Harrison, was accused of exam fraud, student numbers at the school have been plummeting. Now, students may have found yet another reason to quit._

_In an exclusive interview, a former employee at the school has told the Maily Dail that nothing at the art school is as it seems. Even the newly appointed head teacher, Gary Barlow (better known as the “Could It Be Magic” and “Pray” hitmaker) is said to be a poor teacher – even though he has dozens of hit singles to his name._

_“If I were Ofsted, I would seriously question [the Vocational College of Music and Art] taking on Gary Barlow as their new head teacher,” an exclusive source told us. “Gary cares only about his recording career. What he does at school doesn’t matter to him. The teaching job is a marketing ploy to make him gain more popularity, always has been. He would have nowhere near as many fans if he wasn’t a teacher. Take one of those jobs away, and what do you have? He’s as much of a fraud as Harrison was.”_

_The source even went on to say that thirty students filed an official complaint about Gary several years ago. “He wasn’t functioning properly. Everyone knew it, but because Gary was making waves in the music industry at the time, so no-one decided to do anything about it. The only reason the school kept him on was because his popularity attracted new students.”_

_So what about the exam fraud? Surely what happened last month was a one-off event?_

_“All the teachers at that school have tinkered with an exam at one point,” our source told us. “Everyone knows it. Even the students do. I wouldn’t be surprised if Gary turned out to be just like Harrison. I know he doesn’t need the money, but I bet he still keeps all the school fees to himself. Sometimes I wonder if the school should just close entirely after what happened last month.”_

_Is our source right? According to a recent series of polls on our website, most of our readers agree. When we gave you the statement “VCMA should close its doors after the accusations against its former head teacher,” 67% answered with “strongly agree”. An impressive 76% thought that “Gary Barlow is not fit to be in education.” Just a few of you – 13% – supported art schools in general._

_We are still waiting for Gary Barlow himself to reply._

Jay shakes his head when he finishes reading the article. He can’t believe what he’s just read. ‘Rob. This journalist . . .’

‘I _know_ , Jay. I know she’s a showbiz journalist and all that. I _know_ she’s best known for writing about celebrities. But look what that source said! That’s bad, Jay. And look at the comments underneath! I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many negative remarks about the school in one place. People _hate_ the school. Doesn’t that worry you? Cos it worries _me_.’

Jay skims the comments underneath the article. It looks like the average comments box on every single tabloid website. Most of the comments are negative. There also seem to be people who think Gary and Mr Harrison were in cahoots, which is completely ridiculous.

Jay says, ‘All I’m seeing is a lot of opinionated people on the internet sharing their views on something they know nothing about. These people haven’t studied with us, Rob. They haven’t experienced what it’s like to be an art or music student. I know a lot of people are saying very negative things about our school at the moment – and about Gary, which is slightly more worrying –, but none of those things are true. I wouldn’t waste any time on it.’

‘But . . . but what about David49741’s comment about the teaching staff? Here, look.’ Rob points at a certain comment in the comments box. He reads, ‘“Teachers do not want to teach at this school. Students are just a number in their eyes. No wonder the head teachers are being fired left and right!” I mean, that’s _bad_ , Jay. It’s really bad.’

‘I know. It is. I agree. But it’s not _true_ , Rob. I know that you’ve been following the court case closely because of your feelings towards Mr Harrison and that comments like this get to you, but none of them are true.’

‘But what if they _are_ , Jay _?_ What if there are still teachers like Harrison sauntering around the school?’

Jay feels his chest tightening. Rob’s referring to the way Mr Harrison treated him. When Mr Harrison was still head teacher, he treated Rob as if he were a liability, telling him that he needed to “get over his anxiety,” or else quit being a teacher.

Naturally, anxiety isn’t something you get over easily. Jay knows that all too well – but the former head teacher didn’t, which made him Rob’s enemy. Deep down, Rob must still be deathly afraid that there are still people at school who will judge him, like Harrison.

‘I assure you, Rob, everything that journalist has been writing is a lie. Mr Harrison is gone, and therefore all the negativity he brought with him is gone. The school is not going to close, and I will make sure you will never be judged for being _you_ ever again.’

‘What about the parents, though?’ Rob says. ‘What about everyone who’s been readin’ the papers? They’ll still judge us. All of us.’

‘So? The only thing that matters is how our students feel going to school, and how we, as teachers, respond to that. As far as I know, most of our students still love our school. _You_ love our school. Isn’t that the only thing that matters?’

Rob pouts. ‘I _guess_.’ He stops to think about it properly. The reason he’s been keeping up with public opinion about the school is because he was hoping everything would be better now that Mr Harrison is gone.

So why does the school still feel like the same school as a couple of months ago? Nothing has changed. He still gets anxious walking into a staff meeting. The coffee machine still doesn’t work. His colleagues are still drowning underneath piles of work. There’s been an increase of mice in the canteen. Mrs Kennedy-Cairns – Lulu – constantly has a frown on her face because she keeps worrying about the school losing its credibility.

Rob supposes he’s been reading comments about the school because he wants to check whether his own fears are justified. It’s like when you watch a really shit music video on YouTube and you scroll down to read other people’s comments, desperate to find an opinion that matches your own. It’s not healthy, and it’s not productive. It never is.

Eventually, Rob has to concede that Jay is right. As ever.

‘I suppose you’re right, Jay. You’re right. I don’t know what I was doin’, readin’ all these comments on the internet while we’re supposed to be havin’ our date night. My brain knows that I shouldn’t be readin’ all these crap comments, but I still keep goin’. You know what I mean? I guess I’m just unhealthily obsessed with what people think of our school now that Mr Harrison isn’t there anymore. I just want it to get _better_ , Jay. I desperately want the school to get better. _I_ feel it’s better, sometimes, but a lot of people don’t seem to feel the same.’

‘ _I_ do,’ Jay points out. ‘I think the school has improved massively since Mr Harrison went. It has been improving ever since you became support teacher.’

Rob chuckles. ‘Are you sayin’ that only cos we’re lovers?’

‘I’m saying that because it’s _true_ , Rob. Why don’t you put away your phone for a second, and we try not to think about work for the rest of the evening? We could even _kiss_ ,’ Jay adds, making Rob laugh and blush at the same time. ‘I don’t want you to spend the rest of the evening worrying.’

Rob figures Jay’s got a point there. He puts his phone on mute and hides it behind a pillow, out of touch and unseen. ‘What if I do end up worrying, though? About the school, I mean?’

‘Then I suppose I’ll just have to kiss you a little harder, won’t I? C’mere, Mr Williams.’

Jay kisses Rob as though they’re inside a movie. He places his hands on either side of Rob’s chin, leans forward and plants the most delightful kiss on Rob’s mouth. If they were indeed characters inside a film, music might play: a romantic, swelling string quartet, or a soft ballad played on the piano.

In reality, the only background music is the sound coming from the television, currently showing a quiz show that Rob hasn’t been paying any attention to.

Jay’s right: he shouldn’t worry about work. What people think about the school is out of his control. He cannot change people’s opinions by staring at the comments box on a screen. _He_ likes the school, and nearly everyone inside it. As long as he’s still got someone like Jay to go to work with and cuddle up to, he’ll continue fighting for the school as long as he’s able. As much as he likes to pretend that he hates his co-workers and the coffee machine that never seems to work, the Vocational College of Music and Art feels as much like a home as his own apartment does.

As the quiz show on TV is interrupted by a long commercial break, Rob and Jay continue snogging. Underneath a red cushion on his sofa, Rob’s phone starts vibrating. Rob can’t possibly think who might call him at this hour, so he ignores it.

He dips down to kiss Jay’s neck. He kisses every spot of Jay’s body that he feels okay with kissing: his collarbone; his shoulders; the chest he’s been hiding underneath his jumper, now in a pile on the floor. He daren’t kiss Jay lower. He never will.

Just as Rob sits up to take off his own shirt, his phone stops vibrating. Which is just as well, because he wasn’t planning on ever answering anyway. He wants no distractions as Jay trails his fingertips down the outlines of his swallow tattoos and asks him where he got them and when; a story that Rob feels comfortable sharing only with Jay.

Sometimes, snogging and touching is all you need.  
  


# |LESSON NINE: VEGAN PANCAKES|

Still October. Sunday morning. Rob’s apartment.

Jay spent the night again. He was pressed up against Rob’s back all night. The sounds of Jay’s gentle breathing slowly soothed Rob to sleep.

Jay was the first one to wake this morning. He always is. No matter what day it is or what he and Rob got up to the night previously, Jay always gets out of bed early, way before sunrise. He loves seeing the sun set from the tiny window in Rob’s kitchen, the smell of breakfast filling the air. He usually meditates in the morning.

Meanwhile, Rob won’t get out of his pyjamas until late into the weekend, not changing into something sensible unless he absolutely has to leave the house.

Jay likes Rob like that. He likes that Rob seems to live on a different planet than everyone else. Rob is an unpredictable and changeable person at heart (always jumping from one subject to the next when talking), so he has made life at home as simple and uncomplicated as he can. As long as he’s got his job and his reality shows and Jay resting his head on his lap, Rob can easily spend all day lounging in his pyjamas, doing nothing at all.

With Jay being one of those rare teachers who refuses to work from home (even going as far as never checking his school e-mail after work), he and Jay fit together perfectly. They function on the same wavelength, always moving in sync and knowing exactly what the other person is thinking. It makes being together comfortable and safe.

Frankly, falling in love with Jason Orange is the best thing Rob has ever done, hands down. In falling love, it’s like he handed Jay a big piece of his heart that needed nurturing and looking after. Now, Jay’s handed it back and it’s bigger than ever.

That’s what being with Jason Orange feels like: like being looked after by someone who also happens to be a very good kisser.

Unfortunately, even the most handsome men tend to have flaws. Jay’s main flaw seems to be his taste in food. Jay does not eat junk food. He hardly eats snacks. His kitchen cupboards are filled with healthy mouse-sized ingredients from Whole Foods that Rob hadn’t even heard of six months ago.

Most of these ingredients have slowly been making their way into Rob’s house like a mouse plague. Every time Jay comes over for a cuddle and a kiss, Rob will find another bag of linseed staring at him from the kitchen counter, not remembering how it got there or what Jay uses it for.

Obviously, having a boyfriend who cares about his health is not a bad thing. It is a very good thing. Rob would not mind spending the rest of his life with Jay, and therefore he would quite like Jay to live on forever. If all those weirdly shaped avocadoes and chia seeds or whatever help Jay live forever, then Rob supposes he doesn’t mind that his boyfriend has the diet of a mouse.

However. _However_. Rob really likes food. As in, unhealthy food. As in, big portions of chips and lots of mayonnaise. Rob doesn’t even eat breakfast on most days; he just chugs down a can of energy drink and hopes for the best.

So when Rob walks into his kitchen that Sunday morning to see that Jay is preparing yet another low-carb diary-free flaxseed pancake with nuts sprinkled on top, Rob can’t help but sigh.

_Sigh._

He _knows_ that Jay means well. He _knows_ that there’s a certain gap in their relationship that Jay likes to fill cooking. They don’t have sex, remember (Rob fancies guys only romantically, which means all they’ll do is touch each other above the waist), so Jay has to find another way to worship Rob’s body. Making Rob food and preparing his lunch boxes and offering him tea at school is Jay’s way of being more intimate.

Similarly, Rob finds intimacy in their long chats in the evening. It’s why their relationship works so well: they have found their own unique way of being together.

There _is_ such a thing as “too much of a good thing,” though. “Good thing” being low-carb flaxseed pancakes with nuts sprinkled on top. Rob _has_ to be honest about this.

Jay is just about to mix all his superfood ingredients into one bowl when he feels two hands touching his waist and Rob kissing the back of his head. He leans back into his boyfriend’s embrace. ‘Morning, Rob.’

‘Morning, Jay. What are you making?’ Rob asks, even though he knows the answer already.

‘Your favourite,’ says Jay. He waves a hand at the ingredients he has gathered on the kitchen counter: flaxseed meal, almond milk, lemon juice, nuts, baking soda, vanilla extract and some other things that Rob didn’t know went into pancakes. ‘I’m making low-carb flaxseed pancakes, just like yesterday.’

Rob makes a strained sound. ‘ _Great_ , Jay,’ he says in a high-pitched manner.

Jay turns around – leaving Rob’s embrace in the process – and raises two eyebrows. There’s pancake batter on his neck. ‘Do you not want pancakes this morning, Rob? I could also prepare the blueberry chai pudding I was telling you about yesterday.’

Another strained sound. Rob makes a face as though he’s just tasted a sour lemon. He thinks about what Gary told him over the phone the other day. “Relationships are all about feeling comfortable and accepting each other. As long as you’re honest to each other, you’re sorted, you are.”

He just needs to be honest. Simple.

‘Jay . . . you know that I really love you, right? And that being with you has been the best thing that’s ever happened to me and all that?’

‘Yes . . . ?’

‘Well, I don’t really like the food you make me,’ Rob splutters. He fumbles with his hands. ‘Some of your food makes me feel like I’m one of those squirrels that only eat nuts and stuff. I don’t _want_ to be a squirrel, Jay. Sometimes I just wanna stuff my face with chocolate and wake up the next day with a bloated tummy.’

Jay’s response is just like his gestures: measured and calm. He does not seem hurt in the slightest, just curious. ‘Why are you only telling me this now?’

Rob blushes. ‘Because I didn’t want to upset you. And because I didn’t want you to think I was being difficult again.’

Jay frowns. ‘You’re not being difficult by pointing out to me that you don’t enjoy my pancakes, Rob.’

Based on the unchanged expression on his face, Rob genuinely seems to think that he’s being “difficult”. Whatever that means. Jay has never found Rob difficult, ever. He’s been challenging, yes, but not difficult.

This is beginning to feel like the sort of conversation you have to have sitting down.

‘Come,’ Jay says, and he leads Rob by the hand to the living room. They sit side-by-side as they have done all weekend, and Jay takes Rob’s small hands in his. They’re cold. Jay rubs them until they are warm.

‘Tell me, Rob. Why did you say “I didn’t want you to think I was being difficult” when you are nothing but?’

‘Because I _am_ , Jay,’ Rob blurts out. He says the words as though they have been on his mind for ages. ‘I _am_ difficult. I don’t like your vegan pancakes, and I don’t ever go on dates with you, and I don’t even wanna _sleep_ with you because it fucking freaks me out. I mean, we’ve been to Starbucks together, right? You know what Starbucks is like.’

Jay nods even though he has no idea where this is going. Rob has a tendency to jump from one subject to the next, like a bird fluttering between different branches of a tree.

‘Well, imagine you’re going to Starbucks, right, and you look at the food on display and there’s this _massive_ cheesecake that you’ve never tried before. Think “best cheesecake you’ve ever seen”, Jay. And then you look at it a bit more, and you check your wallet and there’s maybe some cash in there, and you think, “I suppose I _could_ try this cheesecake, and I suppose I might enjoy eating it, but on the other hand I’m not sure if I’d like the taste and the texture because I’ve actually never really fancied the idea of cheesecakes before?” That’s how I feel about sex with _you_ , and I hate it, Jay. I absolutely hate it.

‘I feel like being in a relationship with me comes with this massive user manual that I don’t know how to thin out. All I ever say to you is, “I don’t wanna do that” or “No, I don’t like that.” I’m worried sick that one day you’ll get tired of me and that we’ll have this massive argument over me not liking your vegan pancakes with flaxseeds and that we’ll dramatically break up. I mean, _flaxseed_ , Jay. I don’t even know what it _is._ ’

Rob has clearly been storing up these emotions for quite some time, because he’s said them with the speed of light. This goes a bit deeper than Rob not liking his pancakes – this is about their relationship.

Jay’s response is as Rob has grown to expect from him: measured and calculated, but still heartfelt. Jay has the biggest heart of anyone he knows. ‘I know how you feel about the prospect of having sex with me, Rob, and as I have told you before, it doesn’t bother me. It doesn’t bother me if you one day change your mind about sex or if we never sleep together at all. Sex isn’t my priority. My priority is _you_. I care about your comfort. I care about knowing what you are or aren’t comfortable with. So no, I don’t think you’re being difficult. As long as you feel good, it doesn’t matter what we do or don’t do. Even if that means that I’ll have to make a different type of pancakes.’

‘But you’ve already had to make so many compromises for me,’ Rob whispers. ‘Too _many_ compromises.’

‘So have you! You stopped buying dairy products for me, remember? And you stopped visiting certain online newspapers after I told you it made me worry about you. We’ve both had to make changes to make our relationship work. But it works,’ Jay adds, smiling and squeezing Rob’s hand at the same time. ‘I think we’ve had a wicked relationship so far.’

‘Even though I don’t like your pancakes? Cos I reckon that would be a deal-breaker for most people.’

‘Not for me, Rob. Never. In fact – why don’t I make you some regular pancakes with the chocolate spread from your kitchen cupboard?’

Rob’s eyes lit up. ‘With _strawberries?_ ’

‘With strawberries,’ Jay echoes. He kisses Rob softly on the forehead. Rob almost melts.

With that, Rob’s little crisis about Jay’s pancakes is over. He has, again, been made to realise that Jay loves him _because_ of his idiosyncrasies, not in spite of them. Jay will never think Rob is a “handful”.

Jay is the most loving, supportive, beautiful partner Rob could ever ask for. He is the person who gives Rob’s cold autumn days all its colour and warmth. He is the person who will always be waiting for Rob at the end of a school day.

Looking at Jay, Rob can see why Gary wants to get married so badly.  
  


# |LESSON TEN: MR ORANGE’S DANCE CLASSES|

Late October, still. It’s Monday morning, which means it’s “extracurricular class” day. Students can choose a different extracurricular class each term. They’re pretty varied: you can attend animation and photography courses, but you can also play chess and learn new make-up skills from a professional make-up artist. The school has always been quite proud of its extracurricular activities.

The only person currently unhappy with her chosen extracurricular activity is Naima Aygün. Naima is one of the best Songwriting students the school has. She does not get bad grades. She always hands in her homework on time. She loves punk pop acts like The Big Moon, CHAI and The Regrettes because they do not have that many love songs. Overall, Naima is bad at only two things: romance and dancing. She is terrible at dancing.

So when her best friend and fellow Songwriting student Mimi asked Naima if she wanted to choose Dancing as her extra-curricular subject this term, she initially said no. Naima does not dance.

Mimi is a very difficult friend to say no to. Mimi, with her gorgeous blonde hair and soft skin that does not seem to sweat, ever, is very persuasive. All she had to do was bat her long eyelashes, and Naima suddenly found herself signing up for Mr Orange’s extra-curricular Dancing lessons.

It’s a good thing you don’t get graded for extra-curricular lessons, because Naima is shit. She is easily the worst student in the group. All the other students are pretty decent, but Naima? She doesn’t even know how to _clap_ in time.

Mr Orange happens to be one of the kindest teachers there is, so he is always encouraging to Naima. Every time she forgets a dance step or she almost falls over, Mr Orange will show her the step again. He keeps smiling despite Naima’s many mistakes. She doesn’t think she’s entirely deserving of it, but she’s glad. Not many teachers are patient like him.

Meanwhile, Mimi continues to move as if she has already starred in a billion West End musicals. Lucky sod.

Halfway through this Monday’s lesson, Mr Orange announces a five-minute break. Naima sinks on the floor of the dance studio looking like a sweaty mess. Mimi sits next to her as if she is a princess sinking into her throne, looking very much not sweaty. Naima does not know how she does it.

‘Oh, I’ve _loved_ today, haven’t you?’ Mimi sings. Even her voice is perfect. ‘The new choreography that Mr Orange has come up with is so interesting.’

Naima jugs down an entire bottle of water. ‘I suppose.’

‘Do you not like it?’

Naima makes a face as if to say, _Isn’t it obvious?_ ‘I still hate that you asked me to come with you, Mi. I told you I wanted to attend Mr Barlow’s extra-curricular piano lessons again this term!’

‘You already attended those last year.’

‘So? I’m good at playing the piano. I’m not good at all this dancing nonsense. I hate it. I keep falling over. I swear to you, next term I’m going to –’

Mimi shushes her friend. Her eyes go very bright and blue. One thing Mimi isn’t very good at is being subtle. ‘Naima! Look!’

Naima looks to what her friend is – not so subtly – pointing at. Mr Williams – Naima’s support teacher – has just entered the dance studio. He has stopped in front of Mr Orange’s tiny desk in the corner of the dance studio.

The desk is the only piece of furniture in the room. Other than that, the dance studio is one massive space with windows on one side and a large mirrored wall on the other. Right now, the floor is filled with tired amateur dancers.

Naima doesn't see what's so exciting. ‘It’s my support teacher. What’s the big deal?’

‘ _What’s the big deal?_ Naima. Girl. Are you _blind_? Look!’

Naima looks. Mr Williams and Mr Orange seem to be having a conversation. Mr Williams must have told a joke or something, because they’re both smiling and laughing a lot. Hearing a teacher laughing is a bit like seeing them doing a handstand. ‘They’re just talking. That’s what people do. Honestly, Mi – you need to stop being so obsessed with people.’

‘I’m not _obsessed_ ,’ Mimi points out. ‘I’m attentive. I _see_ things. I notice things. Why do you think Taylor Swift’s lyrics are so good? She notices the small things in life. Who else writes songs about photo albums on the counter? Who else knows how to write such brilliant lyrics about _scarfs?_ No-one but Taylor Swift and me.’ (Mimi is very bad at being modest, as you can see.) ‘One day I’ll write songs as good as hers. Why? Because I pay attention, Naima. Now. Let’s try again. Mr Orange and Mr Williams. What do you see?’

Naima rolls her eyes. She has a half-hearted guess. ‘Mr Orange is wearing a suit.’

‘True! But not what I mean. You fail to notice the obvious.’ Mimi flutters her massive eyelashes. ‘Mr Orange and Mr Williams are _flirting_.’

Naima snorts. ‘They are not!’

‘They are. Look!’

Naima looks again. Mr Orange has just squeezed Mr Williams’ hand. Mr Williams blushes and looks away. They’re still doing an awful lot of smiling. To Naima, it just looks like two colleagues having a conversation. They’re probably talking about grades or something. ‘Mimi. I don’t know how often I have to tell you this, but I wouldn’t know what flirting is even if it stared me in the face. Maybe they’re just talking about work?’

‘They’re not. They’re flirting. I know you are not interested in love, Naima, but your observational skills need work. Those two are clearly in love.’

Naima still can’t see it. It genuinely looks as if Mr Orange and Mr Williams are just talking, but then again Naima has never fancied anyone. She is simply not wired that way. She hates the idea of kissing. The only time she has ever felt butterflies was when she saw her favourite band live. The thought of holding someone’s hand seems incredibly inconvenient to her; what if you’re in a hurry and your significant other can’t keep up?

Looking at her teachers, though . . . she supposes she _can_ sort of see what Mimi means. Mr Williams’ face has turned red like a tomato, and Mr Orange is smiling more than ever. It looks like they are constantly on the verge of hugging each other, and then realising that they are at work at the last moment.

‘I hate to admit this, Mi, but I think you’re right.’

‘Of course I am. I’m always right.’

Meanwhile, Mr Orange and Mr Williams keep talking, oblivious to the conversation Naima and Mimi are having about them. They seem to not care that they’re surrounded by students.

‘I missed you this morning,’ Rob whispers. He keeps staring at Jay’s graceful fingers, and wishing he could feel them tangled up inside his own. ‘I sleep a lot better when you’re next to me.’

‘I’ve had the same discovery,’ says Jay. ‘I thought it was rather endearing seeing you arrive late this morning, though.’

‘I was _not_ late,’ Rob insists, blushing. ‘I was . . . otherwise occupied. With sleeping. On the floor. I’ve felt sore all morning, Jay. My back is absolutely killing me.’

‘I might be able to do something about that,’ Jay whispers. There’s a twinkle in his eyes. ‘How about we meet up after work tonight? Unless you are otherwise occupied, of course.’

Rob thinks about it. As much as he loves Jay, he does not do well with spontaneous visits, for spontaneity means anxiety. The moment Rob decides he’s going to spend an entire evening watching telly alone, there is no way you can change his mind. He always needs to be told about a social event several days in advance, even if it involves his boyfriend coming over. It’s just how his brain is wired.

‘How about next Thursday? We can just do the usual: take-out, reality TV and snogging.’

Jason smiles. A big, toothy smile. ‘Reality TV and snogging. Sounds good, Mr Williams.’

‘I look forward to it.’

With that, Rob leaves (looking rather red in the face). To keep up the pretence that he has not walked in here _just_ to talk to his boyfriend, Mr Williams strikes up a quick conversation with Atalay, one of the students he helps with his dyslexia. He also waves at Naima, who waves back sheepishly.

Naima has to admit that Mr Williams looks much happier than he did last school year. It’s comforting to know that teachers have feelings like any normal human being and that their lives aren’t solely revolved around numbers and homework. There are teachers who act as if they live and breathe teaching, which she’s always thought is a bit unhealthy. She supposes it must be nice, having a relationship with one of your colleagues.

She still wants to get nowhere near a relationship herself, though. Who needs a relationship when you can listen to punk pop and eat chocolate cake and feel just as happy?

***

Over time, Rob starts visiting Jason’s extra-curricular dance lessons every week. He shows up constantly, pretending that he has to talk to students about his dyslexia support sessions. Secretly, he’s only there for Jay. The only students who notice are Mimi and Naima.

At the end of the month, two or three weeks before the end of term, Rob shows up at Jay’s dance studio again. He’s shown up at the same time as ever: Monday morning, 10 o’clock. Just a couple of days ago, the young lovebirds met up at Rob’s for their weekly dose of reality TV and snogging.

To Rob’s surprise, the studio is empty. There are no students. The only person he sees is Jay. And he is dancing.

Music is playing from a stereo. Oblivious to his boyfriend having just entered, Jay dances as though he is lost in a world of his own. He almost appears to be floating, gliding gracefully through the studio like a skater on a frozen lake. His arms are extended and long, his fingers pointed at the ceiling. His face is the definition of calmness and poise.

Rob doesn’t know what kind of dance Jay is performing exactly, but he can tell that it is a difficult one. Jay moves from one complex pose into the next, never stopping and never losing his balance. Only once does Jay look like he has forgotten a step, only to glide gracefully into the next a second later.

It looks beautiful. Jay’s movements are as subtle and smooth as the man himself. His moves are never exaggerated or boisterous, but calm, like a slowly-moving river.

Rob can’t stop looking at him. Even though he is alone, Jay demands the space as though he is a performer in front of a crowd of thousands. It’s why Rob loves Jay so much: Jay treats every moment like it’s the most important performance of his life. Everything he does matters to Jay. He does not want a single second to be wasted. He wants his lessons to have purpose and meaning. If you don’t treat every lesson as your best, then why bother teaching?

It’s the same with dancing. He _has_ to treat every performance as his best, or else it does not matter.

Even though he is not familiar with the dance, Rob can tell when it is finished. He applauds loudly, making Jay look up and break out into a million-watt smile. Jay had been so lost inside his own movements that he didn’t notice that Rob had entered.

Rob waves at his boyfriend sheepishly. 

‘Rob! I was wondering when you’d show up. There’s much I want to discuss with you today.’

‘Tell me about it – we’re going to _have_ to talk about how you do those spins, Jay. I’ve never seen you do moves like that.’

Smiling, Jay turns his stereo off. He starts towards where Rob is standing, frozen on the floor in awe. ‘Did you enjoy watching me perform, then?’

Jay checks whether the coat is clear, then rewards Rob with one of those kisses that makes your mouth go all tingly, like fireworks.

‘Did I enjoy it? Mate. That was amazing!’ Rob shakes his head in disbelief. He’s seen Jay dance before (a couple of months ago, he even had the opportunity to dance with Jay at the annual summer prom, dancing in a crowd of ignorant students), but this was something else. It’s given him all sorts of strange prickly feelings inside. ‘I knew you were good, Jay, but I didn’t know you were _that_ good.’

‘Thank you! I’m glad you enjoyed it.’ Jay’s beaming face turns into something more solemn. ‘I must admit, though, Rob, my choreography isn’t quite finished yet. I still haven’t figured out how I’m going to teach the routine to my students. I might have to do more than one lesson this time.’

‘Is that why your students aren’t here?’ Rob looks around the empty studio. A large space with windows on one side and a massive mirrored wall on the other, it is completely empty apart from the stereo on the wooden floor. ‘I’m used to your lessons being a lot more popular.’

‘The lesson has been moved to tomorrow due to timetable issues. I thought I’d take the opportunity to work out final choreography that incorporates all the things we’ve learned previously.’

‘It looks difficult,’ Rob points out.

‘It is. But I do believe anyone can do it as long as they try.’

‘Even . . . me?’

Jay’s mouth twitches at the corners. ‘Yes, even you. Why, do you want me to teach you?’

Rob’s tummy does a weird sort of summersault. The Robbie Williams from a couple of months ago would never have done something as spontaneous as asking his boyfriend to teach him a dance routine, but then again he’s not the same person he was a couple of months ago. Freed from evil head teachers and computer labs, Rob is no longer the guy who struggled with open days and school excursions.

Sure, not everything has changed. Not good at spontaneity, Rob still prefers plan date nights two weeks in advance. He still prefers to stay at home over taking Jay out. He still doesn’t feel particularly comfortable going on school excursions, which he never attends, but things are ten times easier than they ever were.

Thanks to Jay.

‘Yes, Jay – I think I’d like you to teach me. ’

‘All of it, Rob?’

‘All of it,’ Rob says bravely. He has no idea what he’s just agreed to. He’s never done a choreography before. But he’s doing it with Jay, so he’ll probably be all right. Besides – he’s got the rest of the day off. He might as well make the most of it.

Unsurprisingly, Jay turns out to be a very good teacher. He teaches Rob the dance he just witnessed in small steps, starting with the basics and then moving on to bigger sections bit by bit.

The first couple of steps are pretty easy, but it gets harder quite quickly. There’s a lot of armography and swaying your body back and forth. There’s one step in particular that seems impossible to do. It involves your arms and your legs and your hips moving in a certain way, and it’s too much for Rob. Even when Jay shows the step to him over and over, he still can’t get it right for the life of him.

Jay has to do the step _for_ him. Meaning, Jay has to get his hands on him.

‘May I?’ Jay gestures at Rob’s arms, frozen mid-air.

Rob nods. Ticklish, he has to fight the urge to giggle when Jay places his hands on his sensitive arms and lowers them a couple of inches, like adjusting the hands of a clock. Jay’s hands apply just the right amount of pressure.

‘Do the step again?’ Jay asks.

Even though he is suddenly very distracted by Jason Orange touching his, arms, Rob more or less manages to perform the step he was having trouble with. It looks like a scarecrow trying to hula-hoop. Badly.

Rob is none the wiser. ‘Was it better this time? Please tell me it was better this time.’

‘Not quite, I’m afraid.’

‘Is it the arms?’

‘It’s not so much the arms as your hips that don’t look right,’ Jay thinks out loud. Is the choreography too difficult? Should he change it in time for tomorrow, when he’ll ask his students to perform this very choreography? Or is Rob just a bad dancer? ‘Could you move your hips for me, please?’

Rob does a bad interpretation of moving one’s hips.

‘Hm,’ says Jay. He touches his chin.

‘ _Hm_ what?’ asks Rob.

‘It’s your hips. You’re supposed to really _move_ them.’

‘How?’

Jay shows him. It looks sexy.

‘I can’t do _that_ ,’ Rob cries, his cheeks bright red, ‘I’d need to have my hip replaced!’

‘Of course you can. Allow me to show you.’

Jay places his hands on Rob’s hips, gripping them just above the hem of his jeans. It’s meant to be just an innocent gesture really, no more than “dance-teacher-showing-his-student-how-to-do-the-move”, but it still makes Rob’s legs go all gooey. He can't seem to stop staring at Jay’s hands on him, perfectly capable of so much more than just holding his hand.

‘I b-bet you don’t do this with your students,’ he stammers.

‘I don’t,’ says Jay, smiling, ‘but that doesn’t mean there aren’t things I can still teach you, Rob.’

Rob bites his lip. He’s not used to Jay talking like this to him at work. Jay is professional, always. ‘Are you flirting with me, Jay?’

‘Maybe. We _have_ got the studio to ourselves, after all. We might as well make the most of it.’

Rob swallows, hard. He knows that the relationship he has with Jay is unique and different and unlike any relationship he’s ever had, but in that moment – with Jay staring right into his eyes, his long fingers curling around the small of his back –, Rob almost wants _more_.

No, not sex. He doesn’t want that. He wants to _dance._ He wants to sway with Jay in silence, feeling the pressure of Jay’s experienced hands on his sides; having his boyfriend's chest pressed against his own as they snog. He wants Jay to tell him exactly how good he is.

So that is what they do. They dance. They come up with a brand-new improvised routine that involves only swaying and kissing, and laughing whenever Rob gets it wrong. The only armography Rob does is wrapping his arms around Jay’s neck, pulling him closer; showering his skin in a dozen kisses.

Rob may not have mastered Jay’s original choreography, but it doesn’t really matter. Having a relationship with Jason Orange is like a beautiful dance on its own.  
  


#  |LESSON ELEVEN: MEDITATION|

It’s Friday. The first term of the school year is almost over. Rob has been a support teacher for nearly two months. This is a good thing, of course, but also a rather scary thing. You see, every person who has been employed in a certain position at school for two months is obliged by HR to have a meeting with Mrs Kennedy-Cairns to discuss their progress. Rob thinks he’s done a decent job being a support teacher, but he’s still dreading his meeting with Mrs Kennedy-Cairns, who can sometimes be very intimidating-looking.

He tells Jay as much one afternoon. They’re at Rob’s place, as ever. Even though it’s only five o’clock, it’s already dark outside. It’s raining. They’ve just had pizza. It’s cold, but Jay is the perfect guy to pull closer if you get cold.

‘I’m really nervous about my meetin’ with Lulu next week,’ Rob admits. ‘What if my students have been complaining about me? What if I’m actually really crap at this whole support teachin’ stuff?’

‘ _Rob_.’ Jay smiles. ‘We’ve been over this. Your students do not hate you.’

‘What if they do, though?’ Rob does not seem to be able to listen.

‘They don’t. You are the best and most wonderful support teacher this school has ever seen.’ And Jay kisses Rob sweetly on the cheek.

‘I’m still fuckin’ nervous, though.’

Jay rubs the small of Rob’s back. ‘You know what always helps when you’re anxious?’

Rob gives a little shake of his head.

‘Meditation, of course. I even do it at work when I have to meet a class I don’t like.’

Rob rolls his eyes. ‘Is that why you always seem to be floating, because you meditate twice a day? I swear you’re the calmest person I’ve ever met, Jay. It does my head in.’

‘Perhaps. I think I’ve naturally become calmer as I’ve gotten older. But yes, the meditation does help. In fact,’ Jay adds, sitting straight, ‘I could teach you the basics of meditation now, if you want? If you find it helpful, you could even try meditating before you have your meeting with Mrs Kennedy-Cairns next week.’

Rob narrows his eyes. ‘Are you seriously sayin’ I should try meditation, Jay?’

‘Why not? Meditation’s never hurt anyone. I know you find my fondness of meditation rather puzzling, Rob, but I do think it would help you if you tried. Only if you want to, of course,’ Jay adds, smiling. He knows there are a lot of things Rob doesn’t feel comfortable with. ‘If you don’t feel comfortable trying it, then I won’t mention it any further.’

Rob doesn’t know what to say. He’s never really understood the point of mediation, which Jay teaches as part of his extra-curricular classes as well as his more popular dance lessons. He and Gary are the school’s appointed “meditation teachers”, with Jay taking over Gary’s lessons when he is otherwise too busy doing head teacher stuff.

Rob does admire that Jay teaches meditation, but that doesn’t mean he _gets_ it. Who has time to meditate these days? Not Rob, who has such a busy job as a support teacher.

Then again, maybe learning how to meditate would be a good thing. He does feel extremely nervous about everything all the time, and it’s not as if he knows any other coping mechanisms when it comes to nervousness. Whenever Rob is nervous about something, he tends to go online and lurk social media all day, which usually has the opposite effect. It’s really only because of Jay that he’s stopped spending so much time online.

‘Let’s assume for a second that I’m interested in learning how to meditate,’ says Rob, scrunching up his nose, ‘which I’m not, because I absolutely hate the idea of sittin’ still for more than three minutes. Tell me the basics. In English.’

‘It’s quite simple. All you have to do is sit as you are now, with your back straight, and then close your eyes.’

‘And then what?’ Rob asks, impatient to get to the point.

‘You then listen to your breathing in- and out as if you’re listening to the ticking of a clock; or the wind blowing outside, if that’s something you’d prefer. All you need to do is listen.’

Rob waits for Jay to elaborate, but nothing else comes. ‘But . . . _why?_ ’

‘Because it’s relaxing. Because it tends to stop you from letting the bad thoughts in. If the only thing you do is listen to your breathing, you will eventually find yourself calming down.’

Rob doesn’t seem convinced, but then again he hasn’t felt relaxed for the past ten years. ‘So, that’s it? All I do is breathe, and listen, and I’ll suddenly feel like Buddha?’

‘Indeed. Although I suppose there _are_ other things you could try, like spiritual meditation or even transcendental meditation, but those tend to be rather complicated if you’ve not familiar with the basics. Personally, I like using a mantra best.’

Rob lets out a high-pitched squeal. ‘ _Transcendental meditation? Manta rays?_ What the fuck? I swear to God I don’t know what you are sayin’ to me sometimes.’

Jay laughs. Rob almost melts. ‘A mantra is a syllable or phrase that one might repeat during meditation. It is said that mantra meditation can serve as a sort of protection against unwelcome distractions or emotions, like nervousness or anxiety. Transcendental meditation tends to use mantras also.’

Rob snorts. ‘Yeah, nope. I’m _not_ doin’ _that_. Let’s do the breathin’ stuff instead. Explain.’

‘Again – it’s quite simple. All you need to do is close your eyes and listen to your own breathing in- and out. That’s it.’

‘And _when_ are you expectin’ me to do this, exactly?’ Rob folds his arms defensively. As much as he loves Jay, Rob is still feeling rather reluctant to try this whole “listening to your own breathing in- and out” thing. He’d rather just take a nap. Or snog. Or cuddle.

‘I suppose _now_ would be a right time, given that you’re clearly so nervous about your meeting with Mrs Kennedy-Cairns.’

Rob blinks at Jay. ‘What, now? Seriously?’

‘If you want.’

‘Oh all _right_ then.’ Rob still doesn’t really fancy the idea of meditation, but he unfolds his arms and closes his eyes anyway. If you’ve ever closed your eyes in the middle of your living room, you’ll know how uncomfortable it is even when you have your loving boyfriend next to you. As a result, Rob’s breathing becomes rather shaky and irregular.

‘Do I need to breathe in a certain way, or –? Like, I don’t know, heavy breathing or something?’ Rob says all this with his eyes closed. He’s become acutely aware of the cushion behind his back; and the fact that his arms seem to be itching. ‘I think I’m actually feelin’ tenser than I did three seconds ago.’

‘Just relax and breathe as you would normally,’ Jay says.

Rob opens one eye. ‘And closing my eyes and focussing on my breathing will definitely stop me from feelin’ nervous?’

‘Amongst other things, yes. It is also said that meditation reduces stress and that it helps control anxiety. It may even reduce memory loss.’

‘Seriously?’

Jay shrugs. ‘It is what people say. I think it would be remiss of me to question it.’

Rob didn’t really fancy trying meditation before, but he does rather like the idea of having something to control his anxiety.

Reluctantly, Rob closes his eyes again and breathes in and out slowly. He finds concentrating quite hard, for his tummy keeps gurgling, and there are a lot of distracting sounds all around him. The cushion behind his back is still nagging him, so he removes it and puts it aside.

Despite his best efforts to relax, Rob finds his thoughts constantly drifting back to his upcoming meeting with Mrs Kennedy-Cairns. He tries not to think about it. He focuses on his breathing again, just like Jay told him.

Eventually – in spite of Rob’s reservations – the meditation is actually beginning to help.

He begins to calm down.

He successfully blocks out the sound of his tummy gurgling.

He listens only to his own breathing.

His meeting with Mrs Kennedy-Cairns has become only a tiny fleck in his periphery.

After ten minutes, Rob reaches a point when the only thing he feels is lightness and air, like that brief moment when you’ve just woken up on a Saturday morning and your bed is warm and you have nothing to worry about.

Meanwhile, fragments of happy memories come to him like a leaf on a breeze: memories of good days at work, but also Jay, and the kisses they’ve shared.

He no longer feels nervous, and he even begins to smile.

‘How do you feel?’ This comes from Jay. ‘Keep your eyes closed, if you can.’

‘I feel light. Calm.’ Rob keeps his eyes closed as he tilts his head to one side. ‘Happy.’

Jay smiles. ‘See? I told you it wasn’t so bad. Don’t forget to breathe properly, though.’

‘Remind me how, Jay?’

‘You ought to breathe in and out through your stomach, not your chest.’ To demonstrate, Jay carefully places one hand on Rob’s tummy. It makes Rob turn rather pink, for they don’t touch that much unless they are snogging or cuddling. The most intimate thing they’ve ever done is when Jay spent half an hour trailing his fingers past Rob’s more easily accessible tattoos and asked him when he got them and if it hurt. ‘Try to breathe in and out _here_. That’s it. Empty your mind as much as you can.’

Rob can feel his temperature rising as he remembers a recent afternoon in the dance studio back at school, with Jay touching him like he is now. He smiles. He tilts his head in his boyfriend’s direction. ‘It’s a little difficult to empty my mind when you’re this close to me, Jay.’

Jason smiles too. He kisses Rob’s temple, and Rob sinks back into his meditation. 

Rob meditates like this for five more minutes. Eventually, Rob’s mind is beginning to wander again, so he opens his eyes, stretches (cracking his joints in the process), and announces that he’s done meditating. He feels like he’s just had a really long nap.

‘What’s the verdict?’ asks Jay. He sounds a bit nervous.

‘That was _really_ nice, Jay. Really nice.’

Jay looks relieved. ‘So you’re not nervous anymore, then?’

Rob shakes his head. ‘I feel amazing. Like I’m on a cloud in the sky.’ He cringes at his own words. ‘God, that sounds like something Mark would say.’

‘See? So meditation isn’t so bad after all.’

‘Do your students enjoy it, then?’ Rob asks. He’s never really asked Jay about his extra-curricular meditation lessons before. ‘Your extra-curricular meditation lessons, I mean? Do they like them?’

Jay makes a face. ‘Some do, some don’t. For some students, meditation tends to unlock difficult memories. We do talk about this, of course. If a student doesn’t enjoy meditation or finds themselves becoming more anxious because of it, I always like to ask why, if they’ll let me.’

‘That sounds like therapy,’ Rob points out.

‘It can be. Allowing the students to talk about how they feel is actually much more important than the actual meditation. They don’t _have_ to apply meditation in their daily lives, but I _would_ like them to become more aware of their feelings.

‘Some of our students spend all day doing their homework without taking a second to sit down and reflect on their feelings,’ Jay goes on. ‘That worries me sometimes. Meditation could help, but of course it’s not a solution.’

Rob frowns. His meditation over, he pulls up his knees on the sofa and leans his head on Jay’s shoulder. ‘That reminds me of Gaz. Not taking a second to sit down, I mean.’

‘I know.’ Jay mirrors Rob’s frown. ‘I must admit, I worry about Gary often. He seems to never stop working.’

‘Maybe he’s not been meditatin’ enough,’ Rob whispers.

‘Maybe.’ Jay has a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘I feel like Gary’s biggest problem is that he is incapable of saying “no” to people. He wants to please everyone, but in doing so he’s forgotten to take care of himself. Interestingly enough, it seems to mirror some of our students, who have to work three jobs just to get by.’

‘But Gary doesn’t have to get by,’ Rob points out. As he does, he looks at his surroundings: a small but cosy apartment overlooking a shopping centre. His living room is barely the size of a classroom. In comparison, Gary Barlow lives in the biggest house known to man. ‘Gary is the richest person I know.’

‘Exactly. So why does he work so hard?’

Rob thinks about it for a second.

‘Maybe he’s scared. I know _I_ am. Sometimes it feels like the school is just a bad day away from closing. I think I can see why Gaz is so determined to make everything work. He _cares_.’

‘Maybe too much, though.’

‘Yeah.’

Rob makes a worried face. His nervousness has been replaced by something far more annoying: worry.

As much as he loves Gary, he can’t help but worry that he’s taken on far more than he can chew. He hasn’t even proposed to Mark yet, which is equally worrying. Rob was hoping he’d be helping his mates organising their wedding by now.

He turns to Jay. ‘Do you think meditatin’ also helps when you’re worried about your mates, Jay?’

Jay smiles. ‘Why don’t we try?’

With that, they both close their eyes and meditate; their worries about Gary very far away; their bodies as light and airy as if they are floating.

Then again, when you’re in a relationship with Jay, every day feels like you’re walking on air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will put the focus back on Mark and Gary. They might or might not have a very big row.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing his busy boyfriend, Mark pays Gary a visit at his record label. When he gets there, he meets someone who promises him a second chance at making it big in the music industry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features Mark having a wank (what else is new) and some Barlowen angst.

# |LESSON TWELVE: AN INTERESTING MORNING|

It’s the end of October. Gary has been up since 6 in the morning, writing e-mails and doing important “head teacher” stuff in his office. Mark is still asleep.

Meanwhile, the first term of the school year is almost over. Teachers spend nearly every lesson reminding their students that they have to hand in their assignments on time, or else. Student numbers are still dwindling, and online, the opinion about the school is as negative as ever.

Gary’s attempted wedding proposals happened two weeks ago. He’s tried to propose to Mark two times, but during the first occasion his attempt was thwarted by his record label, Dorypol U.K. During the second attempt, Gary had felt simply too afraid to go ahead with it. He had prepared breakfast in bed and hidden his ring inside the sugar pot, but at the last moment, he decided that it wasn’t the right moment.

To make matters worse, a very famous journalist has written some very scathing articles about the school.

Gary tries not to let the articles bother him, but his record label, Dorypol U.K., think the articles are easily the worst thing that have ever happened to him. They want Gary to meet Ms Lloyd and set the record straight in an interview. Next month. During the exam week: the most important week of the first term.

Gary, of course, said no, but record label bosses are difficult people to say no to. He _has_ to do the interview, or else he’ll be dropped. Again. He may be one of Britain’s most successful pop artists, but his record label can easily drop him and replace him with a younger, more handsome version of him.

Reluctantly, Gary wrote Ms Lloyd an e-mail in his office last night. In it, he agreed to an interview with the journalist, hoping that she will see the school for what it truly is.

Nervous, Gary sends the e-mail only that morning. He’s already dreading Ms Lloyd’s reply, so he almost falls out of his office chair when a brand new e-mail enters his e-mail ten seconds later.

It’s only from Dave, the head of Dorypol U.K. His boss. In the e-mail, Dave asks Gary to come meet him at 7:30 a.m.

As in, _half an hour from now._

Gary can’t say he’s surprised, sadly. He knew this would happen. Once a record label thinks you’re a liability, they will do anything to see how much bullshit you can take. Dave Dorypol telling Gary to be at the office at seven in the bloody morning is basically his record label saying, “We're the ones that built you up, but we can also easily take you down again.”

He’ll have no choice but to come.

Even if it means not being there when Mark wakes up in the morning.

***

That Monday morning, Mark wakes before his alarm clock goes off. He wakes slowly. He’s had a good dream: of holidays abroad with his boyfriend, the sun shining brightly above a white beach, sand sticking to their wet skins. In the dream, he and Gary had been together for years; decades. They might even have been married. It was the sort of dream you never want to wake from. He has been dreaming about marriage a lot lately Mark has. Why, he does not know. The idea of getting married has crept up on him without him realising it.

Half-asleep, Mark runs two grabby hands across the space next to him on the bed, trying to find the familiar shape of his partner’s body in the dark.

He finds nothing. Usually, he’d feel Gary’s hands curled up around his waist, or Gary’s breath leaving goosebumps on the back of his neck.

He finds none of those things now.

Mark opens his eyes slowly and finds that the space next to him is empty. The room is dark – the sun hasn’t come up yet –, but Gary is not there. In Gary’s stead, Mark finds a bright pink post-it, right in the middle of Gary’s pillow.

Mark sits up, turns on his bedside lamp and reads the note. It looks as though Gary had to scribble it down quickly.  
  


_Dave from Dorypol contacted me.  
He wanted to meet me at 7:30 this morning.  
I’ve cancelled all my lessons and I took the car.  
Love, Gary  
_ _  
_

Mark feels a ball of disappointment curling up in his chest. This is the first time he has woken up in the penthouse without Gary lying next to him. He will always find Gary snuggling up against him, his large hands gently gripping his sides. There will always be that familiar Gary Barlow smell filling up the bedroom, and the promise of a long shower together. He’s always had the pleasure of spending his morning with Gaz. Always.

However. _However._ Mark knows how important Gary’s record label is. He knows, because Mark once worked in the music industry himself. If Dave from Dorypol needed Gary to come over at seven in the morning, then he supposes there’s nothing he can do about it.

Mark doesn’t think Gary’s ever cancelled all his lessons before, though. The only time Gary ever called in sick was when Mark had just been suspended and he wanted to take care of him. This last-minute meeting must have been very important indeed.

Mark just wishes that Gary being a head teacher and a piano instructor and a pop star at the same time didn’t involve, you know, not knowing when Gary is going to be home all the time. Will Gary be back home in time for tea? Will Gary not be back until one in the morning?

Mark doesn’t know. The post-it doesn’t say. He doesn’t really like the idea of eating his tea on his own. Or worse, going to bed on his own. He _really_ hates the idea of going to bed on his own.

Desperate, Mark turns the post-it over. He feels his heart skipping a beat. Gary left him another message!

It reads as follows:  
  


_PS. I left you a gift in your mailbox x_

  
Mark takes his smartphone from his bedside table. Curious, he logs in on the website of his private e-mail account.

There’s an e-mail from Gary this morning.

Mark clicks. He grins.

The e-mail contains a _video_.

Mark sits back in bed as he watches the video. It’s a video not unlike the one Gary sent him many moons ago: black-in-white, it featured Gary exercising. Gary had sent Mark the video knowing fully well how arousing it was

In the video Gary sent him this morning, Gary is exercising too. But instead of wearing one of his favourite white vests, he is shirtless, meaning that Mark can watch every g muscle as Gary moves his body into nearly every pose known to man.

It’s really sexy – possibly the sexiest video Mark has seen, ever. Gary’s body is bulging and sweating and everything Mark was missing that morning.

Just looking at the video makes Mark feel warm underneath his pyjama top. He unbuttons his top slowly, then takes it off and puts it aside. He runs a grabby hand down his own flushed chest as he watches Gary doing press-ups in the video.

He moves his hand into the front of his pyjama trousers, then gives his cock a nice tug. In the video, Gary bends his body into the kind of position that Mark wouldn’t mind seeing replicated in their own bedroom.

Mark has already turned quite hard inside his boxers when the video stops abruptly at the five-minute mark. He watches it again, just to be on the safe side. He allows himself only soft strokes up and down. He’ll save the rest for in the shower, where he can close his eyes and imagine that Gary is fucking him against the titled wall.

Gary may not be here this morning, but that doesn’t mean today will be a bad day. Today will be a very good day indeed. Sometimes you have those days when everything goes wrong and the Smartboard doesn’t work and you find a mouse nibbling on your textbook and you wonder why you ever bothered becoming a teacher, but Monday is not one of those days. Monday is one of the good ones. He’ll make sure of it.

Being able to start the day wanking yourself off always helps.

Five minutes later, Mark heads into the bathroom half-dressed. Wearing tight pyjama bottoms, he can see a perfect outline of his hard cock when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

As Mark gets into the shower, he keeps thinking about Gaz. He wonders what Gary is doing right now. He’s probably sat in a meeting at Dorypol U.K. He’s wearing one of his best suits: the tight black one that makes his arse look good. His hair will look messy and windswept because he didn’t have the time to comb it before leaving, and yet he’ll still be the most handsome man in the universe.

Gary may not be here right now, but that doesn’t mean he’s a bad boyfriend.

Just a busy one.

Mark smiles to himself in the shower as he realises that. His boyfriend is busy. His boyfriend is busy because he’s successful and powerful, and he couldn’t feel prouder.

Turned on by the realization that Gary is powerful still, it doesn’t take Mark long to come that morning. Minutes, perhaps. All it takes is the fantasy of Gary rubbing his cock up and down in the shower, and the knowledge that he’ll be seeing Gary again tonight, dressed in a tight suit.  
  


# |LESSON THIRTEEN: A MESSAGE ON THE SMARTBOARD|

Mark can’t remember the last time he went to work on his own. Every workday, without exception, he and Gary will take the car to school. They will sing along to songs on the radio and talk about the songs afterwards.

Today, things are different. As he walks to school, alone, the sky above him pitch black, fallen leaves crunching underneath his feet as he walks, Mark can’t help but miss his boyfriend more than ever. He likes going to work more when he has Gary beside him. He likes singing along to songs in the car together.

Now, he can’t have any of those things. He’s still looking forward to going to work, of course, but the journey is different. It feels cold. Even though he’s put on a scarf and wrapped it all the way up to his nose, he is still freezing.

Still. Mark Owen wouldn’t be Mark Owen if he didn’t try to see beauty and positivity even on a bleak Monday morning. He loves the sound of brown leaves crunching underneath his feet. He loves the journey itself: past the canals and recently-built apartment blocks, and through a pedestrianised city street that is already buzzing with activity.

He loves the feeling of his brand new gloves warming up his hands. He loves seeing the leaves falling down the trees above, like ticker tape at a concert. He loves the smell of baked goods as he walks past a bakery. He loves the cold, because it reminds him of what is yet to come: Christmas and New Year's Eve, when every shop window will be filled with lights and Christmas trees.

After a short walk, Mark can finally see the school appearing on the horizon. The school – a former warehouse – looks like Christmas Eve. Every window has been lit up. A large banner has been put up above the entrance, advertising the upcoming open day.

Even from the other side of the street, Mark can already see the large clock face on the front of the school library looming before him. It’s eight a.m. He’s bang on time. There are still thirty minutes to go until his first lesson, the one with his favourite group, M_SW2D.

Before Mark moved in with Gary, he arrived late at work nearly every morning. An inherently disoriented person, it would often take Mark up to ten minutes to find the right classroom. He still gets lost at school weekly, but he doesn’t arrive late anymore. He’s been on time for the past four weeks.

He’s also gotten back into writing.

A former songwriter who used to write songs for other artists, Mark writes two new songs a day now. One day, he’d love to get back into the music industry again.

Slowly, Mark enters the school grounds. As he enters the school, he finds that the main hall is empty. He is glad: at least he won’t have to explain to his friends Howard, Jason and Rob why Gary isn’t there with him.

Alone, he walks up the stairs to the staff room. It is empty save from two colleagues from the Art department.

The first period is still twenty-five minutes away, so Mark sinks into a comfortable red chair in the staff room. It’s still dark outside; so dark that he’s almost beginning to wonder if he will ever see the sun again. Now that it’s autumn, almost November, Mark will often go to work in the dark and come back home in the dark too.

It makes living rather disorienting. Where has the sun gone? What time is it? Why won’t the darkness disappear? He’d probably feel a lot better about Gary not being here with him if the weather wasn’t making him feel equally miserable.

He decides to text Gary to kill the time.

This is what Mark writes:

_— **Mark:** I’m missing you at work right now xx_ [Followed by a string of heart emojis and an emoji of a purple vegetable.]

If Mark were any braver, he might sneak in a picture of himself in his current outfit: a paisley print dress shirt and a black waistcoat.

Alas, Mark could never be like Gary, who often sends him naughty pictures during work – or indeed, videos of himself exercising shirtless. Gary has always been one of the most outrageously brave people Mark knows.

He goes over his text again. He adds another three emojis before sending it. Gary’s always got his phone with him, so he should receive a reply within a couple of minutes or so.

Mark gets up to get a cappuccino from the coffee machine while he waits. The machine is broken.

He sits down with a glass of water instead. He checks his phone again. Gary hasn’t texted him yet. 

More colleagues arrive. He asks them how they’re doing.

It’s 8:15. Still no reply. It’s a bit odd that Gary would have time to upload and send a video of himself exercising, but not have time to text Mark how he’s doing.

Students with large art folders and guitar cases start filling the corridors. There’s the sound of chatter and activity as more and more teachers enter the staff room. Mark still hasn’t seen his mates.

8:17. Still no reply. Mark’s beginning to get a little worried now. Maybe this is why Gary sent Mark that video, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to text Mark all morning?

Mr Hepburn asks him how his weekend was. Blushing rather, Mark tells Mr Hepburn that he spent the entire weekend with his partner. He doesn’t mention Gary’s name.

Mr Stevens walks into the staff room clutching his saxophone.

Three colleagues from the Music department have gathered in front of the cork notice board on the wall. The woman in charge of the timetables has just put up a list with today’s timetable changes. A murmur fills the room as teachers find out that Mr Barlow has cancelled all his lessons.

A teacher from the Art department is reading one of the scathing articles Ms Lloyd wrote the other day.

Mark checks his phone again. 8:20. No reply from Gary. He has to concede that Gary probably isn’t going to text him back this morning. He must still be in a meeting with Dave from Dorypol.

It’s okay. Gary _is_ a very successful pop star, after all. Sometimes that involves going to meetings and cancelling all your lessons and not walking your boyfriend to school at seven in the morning. It’s _fine_. Honestly. Mark doesn’t mind.

Just a little bit.

At 8:26, Mark wishes he could watch Gary’s video again.

At 8:30, Mark has his first lesson of the day. He’s so distracted that it goes terribly wrong.

While Mark is trying to do an online quiz, one of the students writes a very unpleasant message on the smartboard about one student named Jessica, calling her a so-and-so.

The message turns the classroom into a zoo.

All the students accuse each other of being a bully.

Thankfully Jessica herself isn’t present – she’s at home with terrible flu – but Mark has no idea how to deal with the incident. He thought bullying at the VCMA didn’t even _exist_.

Mark never finds out who wrote the terrible message in the end, so he gives the students a big lecture about how bullying is the most terrible thing in the world and hopes it helps.

He leaves his classroom feeling utterly miserable. _If only Gary were here to help me_ , he thinks.

# |LESSON FOURTEEN: TELLING ROB WHAT HAPPENED|

Despite his usual cheerfulness, Mark’s mood swings back and forth for the rest of the day. He wants to stay positive, but it’s hard to be positive when Gary isn’t here and when his students have left such a nasty message on his smartboard.

He _has_ to tell someone. _If only Gary were here,_ Mark thinks, again, as he walks into the staff room, alone. The clock has just struck four p.m. The school day is already over, but Mark doesn’t feel like going home yet. How can he, when his boyfriend probably won’t be at home anyway?

How can he, when he knows for a fact that one of his favourite students Jessica is being bullied?

Mark sinks into a chair in a corner of the staff room and gets out his phone. Apart from the otherwise delicious black-and-white exercising video, he’s received no messages from Gary at all today. He decides to text Gary again.

_— **Mark:** Can we talk? Something bad happened at work that I need your advice about. _

He adds no emoji’s. He wasn’t really expecting any replies, but then he receives this:

_— **Gary:** I’m kinda busy right now – can it wait ? Hope u liked me video by the way xx_

Mark frowns at his phone as he reads the first half of the text. What a strange reply! Did Mark not make it obvious that he needs Gary’s help desperately? What on Earth is Gary doing at Dorypol U.K. that is more important than _school?_

He texts Gary again. He writes that he’s serious. He needs Gary’s advice _right now_.

Gary doesn’t reply.

Downhearted, Mark puts away his phone and stares out of the window. It’s raining. Raindrops chase each other on the windows. Autumn leaves flutter down the sky. Students run across the school grounds to get to the bus stop on time, their hoods pulled over their heads. The sky is already turning dark. It might as well be evening.

_If only Gary were here_ , Mark thinks for the third time. He lets out a deep sigh. At the same time, he feels a familiar hand grazing his shoulder. A waft of soap and cigarettes fills his nose. _Rob._

‘Hey, mate.’ Rob sinks into the chair next to Mark. He’s holding a bunch of papers. ‘You look terrible.’

‘Thanks.’ Mark smiles a little.

‘Did something bad happen?’

‘You can say that again,’ Mark sighs. He glances at the clock. It’s almost five o’clock. ‘Have you got a minute? There’s something I need to discuss with you. Something involving a student of ours.’

Mark and Rob head to the archive room on the first floor. Filled with file cabinets that reach up to the ceiling, it’s a popular spot for private conversations. Previously a dark, dusty space in the basement of the A-wing, it is now light, and open. It’s actually rather cosy.

Mark tells Rob what happened. As ever, he takes a bit of a detour, telling Rob in detail what he did during his lesson that morning instead of really getting to the heart to the matter.

After five minutes of this, Rob makes a gesture with his hands as if to say, ‘Get on with it.’

Mark sighs. ‘After we started the online quiz, someone from M_SW2D called another student, Jessica . . . they called her a . . . well . . . they used a word that wasn’t so nice. It was all over the smartboard. To be honest, I didn’t really know what to do.’

Mark decides that this is a conversation he wants to have sitting down. They sit down on the spotless floor. They lean their backs against the white file cabinets, which make for surprisingly comfortable backrests.

‘I’m really worried that Jessica is being bullied,’ Mark says. He bites his nails. ‘What if people have been bullying her this entire time and I never noticed?’

‘I meet Jessica once a week to talk about her dyslexia,’ Rob says. ‘She has never mentioned bullying to me, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she _is_ being bullied. This is the third time this month I’ve heard of something like this happenin’, to be honest.’

‘The third time this month? What do you mean?’

‘A couple of weeks ago, someone had left a not so nice remark about students from a migrant background on this student survey that Ms Brooke had asked them to do. Like, really offensive stuff. A week later, something similar happened in Mr Steven’s class. The remarks were so bad that a student quit school over it.’

Mark sighs. He pulls his knees up to his chest. ‘What do we _do,_ Rob? How do we tell our students that calling people names is wrong?’

‘We could ask our head teacher to give the kids a lecture about bullying, I suppose. Do one of those team-building days where everyone “talks about their feelings” and stuff.’

‘The head teacher isn’t here right now, though,’ Mark sighs.

Rob can sense a bit of tension here. Rob knows, of course, that Gary tried proposing to Mark a couple of weeks ago, but he hasn’t really heard any updates since. The last thing he heard was that Gary had tried proposing during breakfast in bed and that he’d hidden the ring inside the sugar pot and that he chickened out at the last moment.

When Gary explained to Rob why he had changed his mind afterwards, he said that it hadn’t felt like “the perfect moment”. He just hopes it hasn’t negatively impacted Gary’s relationship with Mark.

‘How _are_ you two doin’, by the way? I’m not used to not seein’ you at work together.’

Mark pouts. ‘I don’t feel like talking about it.’

‘No, let’s. I’m tired of talking about bullying _._ Where’s your boyfriend?’

Mark tucks a long lock of hair behind his ears. He had taken Rob to the archive room to talk about _their students_ , not himself.

‘ _Mark_.’ Rob gives Mark’s hand a soft squeeze. ‘What happened?’

Rob waits, but Mark doesn’t elaborate.

‘Mark. You can tell me. I’m a good listener, remember?’ Rob waves an illustrative hand at himself.

Mark lets out a deep sigh. ‘I feel like my relationship with Gaz is all upside-down at the moment, Rob.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I haven’t seen him all day. He left me a message on his pillow this morning, saying that he had to be at Dorypol U.K. for a meeting with his boss. That’s why he’s cancelled his lessons, you know. He had better things to do. More important ones.’

Mark averts his gaze as he can feel himself going red in the face. He doesn’t want to tell Rob all this. He wants to lift up his chin and smile and pretend that he’s okay with Gary leaving, but he’s not. ‘Gaz did send me a video this morning, you know, of him exercising, which was – it was nice, you know, but I haven’t actually seen Gaz in the flesh since yesterday _._ I don’t know what to do with myself when Gary isn’t at the penthouse with me.’

‘This has happened before, then?’

Mark nods. _‘_ He’s been at the record label a lot lately. And doing head teacher stuff, obviously. I don’t mind, you know, cos – cos obviously recording songs is his job, and I _am_ sort of beginning to understand that being a head teacher involves a lot more than just meetings and things like that, but him leaving in the morning . . . and not knowing when and if I’m going to see him again . . .’

Mark stops talking long enough to take a short breath, then keeps going. His feelings bubble up to his throat and spill from his mouth before he can put them back in again. ‘I know I shouldn’t be saying this, Rob, but I’m actually really fucking scared. I thought I was okay with Gary leaving and spending a lot of time at work, but I’m not. I don’t think I’ve accepted it yet. I'm terrified that one day Gaz is going to go to work in the morning and I'm not going to see him again. I don’t want to lose him to the _one_ thing I can never have.’

Mark turns red at what he’s just said. Rob squeezes his hand.

‘I sound so selfish, don’t I?’ Mark sounds sad.

‘Of course not,’ says Rob.

‘I do, though. I – I shouldn’t be feeling like this. I – I should be supportive. Be a better boyfriend to Gaz.’

‘You can be a good boyfriend and still be shit scared, mate,’ Rob points out, careful not to show any judgment. A couple of students have just walked past the archive room: he can hear the sound of their footsteps fading away. The last lesson of the day must just have finished. ‘Does Gary know this? That you’re worried about him working too hard?’

Mark shakes his head. He thought that he couldn’t ever really be angry at Gary for leaving, but he's not sure if it's that simple anymore. Their relationship stopped being “simple” the moment they started living together.

‘You know what Gary is like,’ Mark sighs. ‘I don’t think he’s got an off button. It makes sense, you know, because work is what stops his mind from spiralling into a dark place, but I don’t think he understands that – I –he . . .’

Mark blows out a long breath and struggles to continue. Sentences are difficult to string together when you’re sad. Rob squeezes his hand, encouraging him to try again. ‘I don’t think Gary understands that _he’s_ the one who keeps _me_ from spiralling. He’s always been the person to put me back together when I feel broken. There are days when I think I feel fine with him working hard and being away a lot, but then – then I get days like these when all I feel is _heavy._ I don’t want to feel like that _._ ’

‘But you do? Feel heavy, I mean?’

‘Not always. Sometimes. A couple of weeks ago we had this date night on the roof and it was amazing and I felt so happy, but then Gary left in the middle of the evening and . . .’

Mark cannot finish his sentence. He traces his finger along the concrete texture of the floor, deep in thought. He listens out for any sounds to distract him from the noise inside his head, but he finds no sounds at all. The archive room is quiet.

‘I promised myself I wouldn’t be upset that night,’ Mark goes on. ‘I promised myself I wouldn’t care. I mean, _I’ve_ got a job too, right? Sometimes I have to attend staff meetings without Gary in the room. Sometimes Gary has to wait for me at the end of a school day. We both live busy lives. I just wish I wasn’t so afraid that it’s only going to get _worse_.’

‘Then tell him that,’ Rob shrugs. He wishes he could tell Mark about Gary wanting to propose to him, but he can’t, of course. ‘Gary once told _me_ that you always have to be honest and stuff. It’s what _I_ did when I realised I didn’t like Jay’s vegan pancakes. Just tell him the truth.’

Mark can’t argue with that. It’s just that it’s rather difficult being honest when you have no idea what your boyfriend is doing.

‘I really wish he was here right now,’ Mark mumbles.

‘I know. Me too. Not in a “boyfriend” kind of way, obviously. More in a . . . “best friend that I respect immensely” kind of way.’ Rob dips down and kisses Mark’s gently on the temple. A “best friend” kiss. ‘But I know what you mean.’

Rob’s kiss only makes Mark all the more aware of what he’s missing and what he wishes he could have. Yearning for the comfort he couldn’t have that morning, Mark rests his head comfortably on Rob’s shoulder. His eyes fill with tears, so he averts his gaze.

‘I suppose you could always go visit Gaz at his record label,’ Rob says after three silent minutes of Mark-resting-his-head-on-his-shoulder in the archive room.

Mark looks up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Dorypol has an office literally a five-minute drive away from here,’ Rob explains. Somewhere inside the building, a clock chimes five times, heralding the end of the school day. ‘Why don’t you go see the office for yourself? You miss Gaz, right? You might as well do something about it yourself. You could tell him what happened to our Jessica, too.’

Mark gives a small shake of his head. ‘I can’t, Rob. His label doesn’t know we’re together yet.’

‘So? Just tell ‘em you’re one of Gary’s colleagues. Pretend you wanna talk to Gaz about exams or something. Well, maybe not exams. Exams are a sensitive subject. Tell ‘im you wanna talk about, I don’t know, lesson plans.’

‘And then what?’ Mark asks cluelessly. He’s not seeing the point.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘Not really.’

‘Once he knows you’re there, Gary will _obviously_ come down to meet you to “talk about lesson plans”, and then when the coast is clear he’ll take you for a tour round the studios and kiss you passionately against a wall in a recording booth. It’s literally the best ever plan.’

Mark looks understandably sceptical, his eyebrows raised. ‘Gary is _not_ going to kiss me passionately in a recording booth, Rob. What if we get caught?’

‘He will. And you won’t. Or do you wanna spend the rest of the evening waitin’ for him to come home to you?’ Rob’s voice takes on a more serious tone ‘You say that you miss Gaz and that you struggle with him always bein’ away and stuff, but there’s two people in a relationship, Mark. That means that maybe there’s some things _you_ can do to make things better too.’

Mark makes a face as if to say that’s a fair comment. At least if he pays Gary a visit at the label, he’ll know for sure that they’ll be going home together – _and_ that he’ll be able to tell Gary what happened to Jessica. With Gary being the head teacher now, Mark kind of has a duty to tell him whenever something bad happens at work.

‘You’re right,’ Mark says. ‘I should put in more effort too, shouldn’t I? Maybe going to Dorypol wouldn’t _that_ bad. He’s probably still there now!’

‘If it helps, I pass Dorypol on me way home every evening,’ Rob says. ‘Jay isn’t coming round till eight tonight, so I’ve got plenty of time to drop you off. I wouldn’t mind.’

Mark smiles. He rests his head on Rob’s shoulder again, overcome with sudden gratitude. ‘Thank you, Rob.’

‘That’s sorted, then. I _will_ drive you, and you _will_ be the best surprise Gary’s ever had. I know he’s been really busy with work lately, but I reckon Gary will always come back to you in the end. I mean, you’re the tightest couple I know! It does me head in how much you remind me of a married couple sometimes.’

This last bit rather slipped out by accident. He can see Mark smiling nervously at the very suggestion, a certain dreamy gleam in his eyes.

If only Mark knew how many times Gary has tried proposing, but Rob can’t tell him that. Not now. Not ever.

‘Do you really think we look like a married couple, Rob?’

‘Yeah, mate.’

Mark grins. The mere thought of him and Gary looking like a married couple makes warmth swell up inside him and burst into butterflies. He’s been thinking about marriage a lot lately, Mark has. Even though Gary has been away often, spending more time at Dorypol U.K. than at home, Mark still finds himself wishing they were married and living together more than ever. He loves the idea of finally making their relationship official.

Rob’s right: Gary will always come home to him in the end. And if he doesn’t, Mark will just come to _him._ Uninvited.

Wearing the sleaziest outfit he has.

‘Do you think you could drop me off at the penthouse before we go to Dorypol, Rob? I’m gonna put my best dress shirt on.’  
  


# |LESSON FIFTEEN: WRONG PLACE, WRONG TIME|

TWO YEARS EARLIER – MARK’S FLAT

There’s the sound of the letterbox opening. Something is being pushed through it. An envelope lands on the doormat. Mark doesn’t bother opening the envelope as he picks it up from the floor and throws it on the growing pile of envelopes on his living room table. He already knows it’s yet another bill that he won’t be able to pay.

Sighing, the young songwriter sits down on his living room sofa, the envelope ignored. Residing at a tiny apartment in a run-down part of the city, Mark’s living room also triples as an office, recording studio and dining room. Balled-up pieces of paper cover the floor. A coffee cup has left a circular stain on a lyric sheet. A battered guitar rests on a cushion on his sofa. His laptop currently shows a list of all the demos he’s ever recorded.

Most of them are unused.

Scrolling through the list now, in his living room, Mark feels rather sad. Here, he spots a love song he wrote just yesterday; there, a song about depression that he recorded on his Dictaphone when he was twenty. He has enough songs for an entire album, but he knows he’ll never get an album out. He’ll always be the guy writing songs for C-list artists no-one’s ever heard of.

Mark likes his career in songwriting, but he doesn’t love it. It doesn’t pay the bills anymore. Even if he ever ended up writing a song for a relatively famous pop star, he’d still earn peanuts. It’s one of the disadvantages of being a songwriter in the streaming era: unless you’re Ariana Grande or Billie Eilish, writing a song will earn you only a couple of hundred quid at best. Possibly less.

In the meantime, more and more bills keep falling on his doormat. He’s no longer in a position to pay them. He has only a couple of quid in the bank. If he doesn’t get a new songwriting assignment soon, he might not be able to stay in his flat anymore. He needs money, fast.

There is _one_ solution he’s been considering, but . . .

Mark closes his laptop with his miserable list of unused demos and removes a newspaper clip-out he’s been keeping in his smartphone case. A woman from a record label gave it to him once, asking whether he’d be interested. It says:

  
TEACHERS WANTED FOR “CREATIVE WRITING” LESSONS AT LOCAL SIXTH-FORM. TEACHING EXPERIENCE NOT NECESSARY. TO APPLY, PLEASE CONTACT 0565746446.  
  


Ever since the woman gave him the clip-out, he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it. According to the ad, they need people to plan and teach a couple of “creative writing” lessons at a local school, with some training being offered to people who haven’t done any teaching training. It seems pretty nice. He’s never done any teaching, but he does have a fair amount of experience with creative writing, being a songwriter and all. It might be fun, teaching creative writing.

It pays a nice amount, too. Sure, it’s not great (teaching salaries never are; and this would just be for two or three months), but it’s not terrible either.

Then again, Mark’s not so sure if he’d be a good teacher. The teachers he remembers from middle school were all strict and stern-looking. If he ever became a teacher himself, he supposes he’d be kind and fair, and supportive. Is “kind and fair” something people look for in teachers?

He doesn’t know; he really doesn’t. It’s rather a stretch, doesn’t it, taking on a job teaching creative writing to sixth-forms. Looking at the ever-increasing pile of bills on his living room table, though, applying for the teaching position might be the only thing stopping him from being evicted from his flat.

He knows that record labels aren’t interested in his songs anymore, which only ever ended up being record by C-listers anyway. He knows that songwriting is the only thing he’s good at, and that he’d never be able to get a job at a shop, or at a bank, or even as a cleaner.

Mark’s always heard people say, “Those who cannot do, teach”. He always thought that was a pretty confusing thing to say, but as he picks up his phone and dials the number in the ad, he finally understands what it means.

When there’s nothing left in life that you’re good at, teaching is the only thing that remains.

***

PRESENT DAY - DORYPOL U.K.

Even though the sun has already gone down, Dorypol U.K. is still buzzing with activity. The building is packed with people: artists carrying vinyl cases; men in suits hurrying from one office into the next; the girl with the blue hair sat in a corner, writing a love song in her leather journal. It gives Mark a familiar thrill of excitement, for he used to visit places like this all the time before he became a teacher. He, too, would write a love song in one of his journals in an empty corridor, of reflect on his music with a cup of coffee warming up his hands.

Nervously, Mark starts towards the reception desk on the ground floor. He’s on his own: Rob has already gone home. Being dropped off by Rob made Mark feel like a nervous teenager being driven to a first date, with Rob being the concerned parent.

The desk is currently being manned by a handsome-looking guy who’s around the same age as Mark. He has dark eyebrows and sparkling blue eyes that make him look like he’s always plotting something. On his chest, there’s a nameplate that says he’s the secretary to Dave Dorypol, the head of the record label. Mark reckons that makes him pretty important.

‘Hallo,’ says Mark, more nervously than he had practiced inside his head. ‘I – I came here to see Gary Barlow.’

The secretary – Josh – gives Mark a kind of patronising smile. ‘I’m sorry, but if you want to see Gary, you should buy tickets for his tour.’

Mark flushes scarlet. _The secretary thinks he’s a groupie!_

Nervous, Mark puts his hand to the front of his coat. You see, instead of wearing his comfortable paisley print dress shirt from that morning, Mark has gone and slipped into a see-through dress shirt underneath his thick winter coat. When you go out of your way to visit your boyfriend at his second job, you might as well dress for the occasion.

‘Oh. I’m – I’m not a fan,’ Mark stammers, all the more aware of the outfit he’s hiding. ‘I – I work at – I – I work with him at school. Wait. I’ve got my key card somewhere . . .’

Mark gives the secretary his key card that he uses to open classrooms at school. The secretary’s face flickers with recognition when he sees Mark’s name spelled out on the key card. ‘I work at VCMA, see? Me and Gary, we’re – we’re colleagues. There’s something I need to talk to him about. It’s important. There’s been an incident at school, you see. Something involving one of our students. Someone was very mean to her.’

The secretary to Mr Dorypol hands back the key card with a blank look on his handsome face. ‘Gary isn’t here right now.’

Mark frowns. ‘But that’s not possible. He told me he’d _be_ here.’

‘Yeah, that’s not entirely true,’ Josh the secretary says. ‘It’s true that Gary came in early for a meeting with our head of the label this morning, but he left two hours ago. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you, given that you’re colleagues and all.’

Mark feels a flush of disappointment blooming inside his chest. If Gary’s not here, then where _is_ he? Mark went back home to change into something sleazy just ten minutes ago, and Gary was definitely not there. The penthouse may be big, but not _that_ big. Mark would have noticed if Gary were there. ‘Do – do you know where Gary went?’

‘He’s at a party, I believe.’ Josh looks at the watch on his wrist. ‘It ends at about two in the morning.’

Mark’s mouth feels uncomfortably dry. ‘A _party?_ ’

‘Maybe party isn't the right word,’ says the secretary. He flashes another patronising smile. ‘Dorypol organises a sort of . . . gathering for people from different Dorypol branches every year. It’s an opportunity for people to network and get their names out there. It takes place in Liverpool this year. Did you not know? You’d think your colleague would tell you these things.’

Mark shakes his head. He has grown considerably paler over the course of the conversation. ‘He didn’t tell me anything. All I wanted to do was talk to him about work. You know, _school_ work.’

The secretary narrows his eyes at Mark. He leans over the reception desk and lowers his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. ‘You’re not just here to talk to Gary about work, though, _are_ you, Mr Owen?’

Mark flushes. ‘No. Of – of course I am.’

‘Oh, please.’ All of a sudden, Josh doesn’t sound like a secretary anymore. ‘You can’t _fool_ me. I know who you _really_ are.’

Mark puts a hand on the front of his coat, suddenly terrified that it will fall open and he will expose what he is wearing underneath. Alarm bells start going off inside his head. ‘I – I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Yeah, you do. You’re Mark Owen. You’re a songwriter.’

That makes Mark laugh a nervous sort of laugh. ‘What?’

‘You’re Mark Owen,’ the secretary reiterates. ‘I know the songs you wrote for that female pop star a couple of years ago. _Clementine_ and _Alone Without You_ , right?’

It takes Mark’s brain a couple of seconds to catch up with what Josh is saying. He can’t remember the last time someone mentioned his songs by name. ‘You’ve heard of my songs, Josh?’

‘Of course!’ says the secretary. His expression has softened considerably. Mark must have imagined the plotting expression in Josh’s blue eyes, because the secretary looks genuinely interested in him. ‘Your songs were _everywhere_ for a couple of years. What made you stop?’

For a second, Mark he forgets that he came here for his boyfriend, who isn’t here. It’s been ages since someone last asked him about his songs. He’s not even sure if Gary’s ever asked him about it really.

As a result, Mark stores Gary’s sudden “disappearance” in the back of his mind and tells Josh about his songwriting career without taking a single pause. He tells the handsome secretary everything: from writing songs for C-listers and making just enough money to get by; to leaving the industry two years ago and not writing any songs until a couple of weeks ago, when he was given his brand new red leather journal by his colleagues. He also explains how badly he wishes he worked in the music industry still. 

‘I really like teaching, obviously,’ he goes on to say, ‘but I do miss working in the music industry. I miss being able to go to writing camps and writing songs for other people. It wasn’t easy, you know, but – but it was good. I was happy. I miss that part of my life. Especially when – when I’m surrounded by people like Gary and Lulu, who have obviously done a very good job being teachers and songwriters at the same time. I envy them sometimes, to be honest.’

By the time Mark finishes, the secretary’s handsome face has switched back to “plotting something”. Mark is too busy trying to catch his breath to notice. ‘It sounds to me like you have some unfinished business in the music industry, Mark. Are you sure you’re only here to talk to your colleague?’

Mark flushes. ‘Oh. Oh, no. I _did_ come here for Gary. Only Gary. Something very weird and concerning happened at work, you see, “work” being our school, and I need to talk to him about it. He’s our new head teacher now, you know.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ says Josh. He strokes his chin, lost in thought. ‘That said, it must be _very_ convenient, having a pop star as one of your colleagues. If you want to get back into the music industry so badly, why don’t you just ask _him_ for help?’

Mark shakes his head. ‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

_Because Gary is so busy with his own music that I don’t want to bother him with my own,_ Mark thinks, but he can’t tell Josh that. Doing so would only make Gary look bad, and what good would that do? He doesn’t want to speak negatively about his lover. Especially not _here_ , surrounded by people who could drop Gary from the record label with the snap of their fingers.

‘I want to get back into the industry on my own,’ Mark shrugs. ‘I’ve done it before, so – so I should be able to do it again, shouldn’t I? I just need to get me songs out there.’

‘And how would you do that?’ asks Josh, who has, by now, neglected his secretary duties and leaned back in his chair, an intrigued look in his eyes. ‘You say you don’t want to ask Gary for help, but I think you’ll find it very hard to return to the industry without anyone backing you. Obviously, you need someone to get you noticed. Why don’t you ask _me?’_

Mark lets out a soft scoff. He doesn’t want to be awful, but Josh doesn’t look like he has _that_ much influence over here. He may be the secretary to Mr Dorypol himself, but at the end of the day, it’s the big men and women in suits who have all the power at a record label.

‘Don’t get me wrong, Josh, but you’re . . .’

Josh cocks his right eyebrow. ‘A secretary? That’s _executive_ secretary for you. I talk to Mr Dorypol daily. I’m the first person who knows what he is doing and where. I’m the first person to know which artists Dave is signing. I know everything that is going on at this place and more.’ Josh waves a hand at their surroundings: a lobby filled with people, each more important than the next. ‘I mean, sure, I _suppose_ you could also go straight to the top by asking your “head teacher” for help, but what good would that do? Start small, I say. Start with me. I’m serious. I can help.’

Mark smiles nervously. He doesn’t know how to feel about this.

Can he trust this guy? He does look very nice, Josh does. He’s wearing a nice suit and his teeth are clean and he’s got a very smooth voice that makes Mark wonder if he’s a singer as well as a secretary. Executive secretary, that is. If anyone can help him “get noticed” by the people from Dorypol, it’s him: the first person people see when they walk in here. The link between him and Mr Dorypol.

On the other hand, Mark _is_ currently dating one of Britain’s biggest pop stars. He already knows that if he ever asked Gary to help him, Gary would do it. Gary might even set up a record label for him or something ridiculous like that. All Mark would have to do is ask, which he never would. He’d rather get back into the music industry on his own, as it should be.

‘Thank you, Josh, but I think I’ll try figuring things out on me own for a couple of months,’ Mark says, sounding more nervous than he would like. ‘Me and Gary are really good friends, you know, so I can always ask him to help me when he’s not so busy. Besides, I really like teaching. Writing songs isn’t a priority right now.’

Josh laughs a hollow sort of laugh. ‘I’m sorry, Mark, but if you think Gary is going to have time for you, you’re going to be very disappointed.’

Mark’s heart skips a beat. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Isn’t it obvious? I _know_ him, Mark. I’ve seen Gary passing through this building for the past three, four years. He’s always busy, pretending that he’s better than everyone else because he’s got jobs in ten different places. You may be friends with him, but that doesn’t mean he’ll help you. I don’t think he even knows how to help himself.’

Josh opens a drawer inside his desk and holds out a business card with his name and phone number on it. ‘Trust me. I can help you. If you’re serious about returning to the music industry, call me. Don’t try to depend on big pop stars with big wallets when it’s people like me who know this place inside-out. I could get you in touch with decent producers like _that_.’ And he snaps his fingers for emphasis.

Shaking, Mark accepts Josh’s business card. He doesn’t want Josh’s help really, but it’s hard to think straight when you haven’t seen your boyfriend all day.

Coming here has stripped Mark of all his common sense, leaving him only with a misplaced sense of kindness towards anyone who might help him, like Josh. Josh, who is so kind. Josh, who has been honest and open to him, unlike Gaz, who has disappeared to a party. 

What else can Mark do but smile and say ‘thank you’?  
  


# |LESSON SIXTEEN: WAKE-UP CALL|

On the night of Monday to Tuesday, several hours after Mark’s fruitless visit to Dorypol, Mark sits down to write in his journal again. He’s alone.  
  


_Dear Journal,_

_Monday night was hard. You see, when I went to Gary’s record label (I wanted to surprise him with a certain revealing outfit that showed off my body), Gary wasn’t there. In his place, I found Josh, a secretary. Executive secretary. I liked Josh. He had dark hair and a nice smile. He gave me his business card and told me that he might be able to help me get back in the music industry._

_Even though I trusted Josh, I don’t know why I took his card. I should have said, “Thank you, but I’ll sort this out on me own”. I didn’t want to upset Gary by accepting the help of a stranger. If I want to become a songwriter again, I know that all I have to do is ask Gaz and he’ll do everything in his power to help me reach my dreams. I don’t need Josh._

_But when I got home tonight (alone, because Gary wasn’t there), I was still thinking about what Josh had said. He told me that Gary was selfish and that he’d never help me out._

_To be honest, I was beginning to wonder if Josh was right. Gary has been away so often lately that I hardly see him anymore. Apart from a video that Gary sent me this morning (a video of him exercising, which was very sexy and hot and … well, let’s just say I liked it a lot), I haven’t heard from him all day. He didn’t even reply to my texts._

_I know that Gary is away a lot because he is a very busy man with about a million different jobs, but I’m still his partner, aren’t I? Why didn’t he tell me that he was going to a “party”? Why didn’t he call? Why didn’t he reply to my text about work, in which I told him I needed to talk?_

_Why was he not there with me when I walked into the living room, alone?_

_Even though I was tired, I waited up for several hours tonight. I tried calling him twice before turning the telly off. I left him a billion texts._

_He didn’t reply to a single one of them. I saw the hands of the clock going way past midnight when I finally decided to go to bed. It was still a school night, you see, so I couldn’t stay up forever. Tomorrow was another workday. I had no choice but to try to get some sleep._

_Even if it meant not being there when Gary finally came back to me._

_As I went to the bedroom, I was still thinking about Josh’s business card. My mind was still repeating all the things he had said, over and over._

_Don’t get me wrong – I love Gaz. I love him more than music. I love him more than the moon in the sky, which was hidden behind a layer of clouds last night. Everywhere I go, even when I’m alone like I was on Monday, I can still see little bits of Gaz reflected in the air and the clouds. I can even hear him in the songs that play when I walk into school every morning. I take a little piece of Gary’s heart with me with every step I take._

_I didn’t feel that connection tonight. Tonight, I felt like Gary might as well have been on the other side of the world. He felt farther away than ever. Even when Gary was on tour last summer, performing in places like Australia and Asia, I still felt like he was there with me._

_Tonight, I just felt empty. I woke up to an empty bed and it was still empty when I put my pyjamas on._

_Me and Gaz have been living together for a couple of months now, so I’m kind of used to listening to Gary breathe as he sleeps. Now, all I could hear was my own brain replaying Josh’s words until I finally slept._

_I’ve had many nightmares, too. I’ve been having nightmares ever since I got suspended. Even Mr Harrison being arrested hasn’t been able to keep the nightmares away._

_I think it must have been two or three in the morning when I woke up to the sound of footsteps. I felt relieved. Gary was back. It was dark. I listened._

_I did nothing._

_I felt the mattress dipping underneath me. The scent of wine and expensive aftershave filled the air as I felt two familiar hands curling around my waist. I had to bite away a sigh of relief when Gary pulled me to like I was a teddy bear. I could tell he was careful not to wake me up, and yet I felt wide-awake when I felt the familiar shape of his chest pressing against my back. My relief to feel Gary’s body against my own immediately disappeared when I remembered how tired and worried I’d been, staying up all night._

_Gary said nothing. He did nothing but hold me tight. He must have thought I was still asleep, because everything he did was slow and quiet, like tiptoeing into a silent room._

_I can’t remember exactly what I was thinking when Gary returned to me. I suddenly found myself in a position I usually enjoy (me lying on my side, Gary spooning me and nuzzling my neck), but it didn’t feel good that night. It felt off. It was the same feeling I sometimes get when something bad happens during a lesson and you don’t know how to respond to it so you just keep quiet and ignore it. _

_I didn’t want to ignore my feelings this time. I had to say something. I had to, because Gary had finally returned to me, smelling of aftershave and wine and taxi cabs, and yet all I felt was . . . anger, I suppose. I can’t really explain it. I don’t get angry often, but I did that night. I guess it was only natural after I’d stayed up for him all night._

_‘I went to your record label,’ I whispered. It came out as a croak. I waited for my voice to lose its sleepiness. ‘You weren’t there.’_

_Silence. I could feel Gary’s hands losing their grip on my waist. I couldn’t see Gary’s face, but I had a vague idea of what it looked like. ‘You went to Dorypol?’ he asked, surprised. Caught in the act._

_‘You weren’t there,’ I reiterated. I felt embarrassed just thinking about the outfit I’d put on underneath my coat: a see-through shirt that showed off my chest. I never got it to show it to Gary in the end._

_I think what Josh told me at the record label had made me more upset than I wanted to admit, because my voice was trembling. My entire body was shaking. ‘They told me you were at a party.’_

_More silence. All I could see was darkness. The only source of light in the room was the alarm clock on my bedside table, telling me it was three in the morning. Gary had been away for ages. No calls, just one text, no idea of where Gary was and how he was doing._

_Nothing. All I had was the video of him exercising, which maybe wasn’t as good as I thought it was._

_I was expecting Gary to turn his bedside lamp on and say sorry, but he didn’t say he was “sorry” at all. He did nothing. He kept quiet. All I could hear was a clock ticking away in the distance, emphasising the silence – emphasising the distance that Gary had created between us._

_A couple of months ago, I would have just said nothing and stayed quiet and pretended to be fine, but we’re not in the past anymore. Time has moved on now, and things aren’t as easy as they used to be. Time has taught me that sometimes even good things can have some bad things about it._

_‘Gary,’ I went on, my voice barely a whisper, my eyes filling with tears, ‘next time you come back from work at three in the morning, don’t bother waking me up.’_

_I can’t really remember what happened next. I suddenly found myself pulling off the covers and getting out of bed, my pillow clutched to my chest. The last thing I wanted was sharing a bed with someone who smelled of red wine._

_I walked away. I know it sounds dramatic. But I felt so upset it was the only thing I could think of doing._

_I was already halfway through the bedroom (it’s a very big bedroom) when Gary turned his bedside lamp on. I stopped in my tracks. The room filled with a warm yellow glow, but Gary looked ashen._

_‘Where the fuck are you going?’ he asked._

_‘I’m going to sleep in the guestroom,’ I replied more angrily than I’d intended._

_‘Why?’ Gary wasn’t getting it._

_I shook my head, my eyes full of tears. I don’t get upset at Gary quickly, but the lack of sleep and Josh’s words were doing things to me. I really hated that Gary had come home at three in the morning without so much of an explanation. I’m his partner, aren’t I? Shouldn’t he share this stuff with me?_

_Perhaps I was being unreasonable. Perhaps I was missing something. Perhaps I was right to be annoyed. I still don’t know. Maybe I was being insecure, as ever. _

_To be honest, sometimes I still don’t entirely believe that someone like me is worthy of being loved by someone like Gaz, who is so perfect and lovely. I have everything I’d possibly want, like a nice house and a nice job, but sometimes I get genuinely afraid that one of these days I’m going to have everything I love taken away from me._

_Problem is, I think that maybe Gary has already been moving away from me. That’s why I was so upset that night. I was upset because I was fucking terrified that I was one day going to lose the one thing I hold most dear. _

_After what happened at work two months ago (being suspended and nearly losing my job), I need everything to be perfect. And I do mean everything: my lesson plans, my ride to work in the morning, my writing activities –every second I spent with Gaz. As long as everything is perfect, I can live in the knowledge that nothing bad will ever happen again._

_Gary coming home late felt like yet another imperfection. Another mistake. Another tiny crack in the mirror. I knew it needed fixing, but I didn’t yet realise that night that sometimes only two people can fix something._

_That night, the only thing I could think of doing was putting all the blame on Gaz. Stupid, really. But I suppose that’s what happens when you’re tired._

_Then again, maybe my fear of losing the things I love is something that has always been inside of me. To this day, I’m still not entirely sure if I’m worthy of having my job at VCMA. I’m not a perfect teacher. My lessons aren’t always amazing. Sometimes I really struggle with certain groups. It’s a feeling of insecurity that I’ve always had inside of me, even long before I became a teacher or got my job at VCMA, and now I think my insecurity is beginning to influence my relationship too._

_Deep down, I will always be afraid. Of everything. Always. Running away from my worst fears seemed like the only natural response that night._

_‘Mark.’ Gary’s voice was cutting through my confused thoughts. ‘Why are you going to the guestroom?’_

_‘Isn’t it obvious?’ I said. I was feeling fucking miserable. ‘You were away all day, Gaz. You ignored all my texts – even the one in which I told you I needed to talk to you.’_

_‘I sent you that video of me exercising, didn’t I?’_

_I flushed. ‘Yes, but you didn’t text, Gaz. I needed you.’ _

_‘I was busy,’ Gary said, short and to the point._

_That hurt. I couldn’t bear to raise my voice, but perhaps I should have done. ‘Busy with what? Recording songs? Talking to people from your record label?’ I shivered thinking about that morning’s lesson again. ‘I found out this morning that one of my students is probably being bullied, Gaz. I needed you. We all did. It got to a point where I got worried sick about you. Again. I had no idea where you were.’_

_‘I’m a pop star,’ Gary replied. ‘Sometimes these things happen.’_

_‘No, Gaz.’ I looked at my partner with blurred vision. My emotions were making me say things I’d never say usually. ‘These things happen because you let them.’_

_I stormed out of our bedroom then._

_The moment I shut the door of the guestroom, I burst out in tears._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Directly continued from the previous chapter, Gary and Mark make up after their lover’s tiff. A couple of weeks later, an influential showbiz journalist comes to visit the school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some car sex.

# |LESSON SEVENTEEN: MAKING UP|

It is the night Mark went to Dorypol records to surprise Gary, his boyfriend. Underneath his coat, he was wearing a see-through shirt that showed off his chest and dolphin tattoo. Once there, Mr Dorypol’s secretary, Josh, told him that his boyfriend was at a party in Liverpool. Gary didn't come home until three in the morning that night. He didn’t even text.

Thirty minutes have passed since Gary finally came home. Mark wasn’t that thrilled about Gary coming home late and not texting him. They argued, voices raised.

Upset, Mark stormed out of their bedroom and hid in one of the penthouse’s many guestrooms. He’s still there now, writing down his thoughts in his red leather journal.

Mark began his journal entry feeling terribly upset at Gary, who had spent nearly twenty-four hours away from home. In his absence, he’d sent Mark only a video of him exercising. He had barely replied to any of Mark’s texts. It

Now, Mark just feels anxious. Anxious for _Gaz._ Gary is one of Britain’s most successful solo artists, and yet his record label have spun him into a web he can no longer get out of. If he says “no” to releasing another album, his label will drop him. If he says “no” to meeting nasty journalists, his label will drop him.

The thing is, Gaz is bloody successful. He lives in a penthouse. He’s rich. He has recently done his biggest-ever tour. He has six or seven number-one singles. He’s recently been made the school’s Head of Music. Is being dropped really the worst thing that could happen to him, Mark wonders? Would it hurt Gary to say “no” every now and then?

As if expecting the answer to come to him inside his journal, Mark flips through the pages he wrote tonight.

Mark can’t help but feel a little ashamed of himself. His journal makes him sound angry and spiteful, which he’s not. It’s why Mark likes writing so much: whenever his feelings seem to ebb and flow, writing in his journal helps him make sense of how he is feeling. Looking back at what he wrote now, he’d rather just be kind and forgiving.

Guilty, Mark tears the pages he wrote that night from his journal and tears them into a million pieces, scattering them all over the bed. He feels better immediately. He can never be angry at Gary for long.

Mark’s just about to flip to another page of his journal when he hears footsteps. There’s a knocking on the door. Gary.

Should he answer? He _could_ just turn the lights off and pretend that he’s sleeping.

Then again, they’re not teenagers anymore. They can’t wish their arguments away by ignoring each other.

‘One second,’ Mark croaks. He gets up from the bed, tosses the torn-up pages from his red leather journal into a trash bin, runs a hand through his hair (just in case) and opens the door.

In the doorway, he finds a pyjama-clad Gary Barlow – holding Hugo the dog. Mark feels better immediately.

‘Hugo wouldn’t stop barking after you’d left,’ Gary explains sheepishly. He hides his face in Hugo’s black fur. ‘I don’t think he likes it when we argue.’

‘Neither do I,’ Mark sighs. He waves a hand at the guestroom behind him, encouraging Gary to join him on the bed. They sit. Hugo ends up curling up into Mark’s lap, removing the dark thoughts that Mark was still having inside his head. He and Gary daren’t speak.

‘I’m sorry I ran off like that,’ Mark mumbles. He tickles Hugo behind the ears.

‘It’s _me_ who should be sorry,’ says Gary. He looks older and more tired than Mark has ever seen him. Even his pyjamas don’t quite seem to suit him. The party he went to mustn’t have been that fun after all. ‘You’re right – I should have called. I should have texted. I don’t know what I was thinking, heading off to a party on me own. I don’t even know I why I sent you that video of me, to be honest. I must have looked bloody desperate.’

‘Oh, I _liked_ that,’ Mark admits. He blushes. ‘I liked your video very much, and I’m glad you sent it to me. I – I just didn’t enjoy the rest of the day as much. I was worried about you, you know. I’ve never _not_ woken up with you by my side.

‘And then something really bad happened at work – you know, a student thing – and I needed you more than ever. I needed you there with me, telling me how to deal with this thing that I didn’t know how to deal with. I needed you as a boyfriend and a head teacher and everything in between.’

‘Is that why you went to Dorypol?’ Gary asks. He sounds tired still. ‘Because you wanted to talk about work?’

‘Yes. No.’ Mark flushes. ‘I went there to talk to you, also, but . . . but also because . . . _you_ know. Because I _wanted_ you. And then Mr Dorypol’s secretary told me you weren’t _there_.’

Gary blows out a raspberry. He thinks about what he wants to say, putting the words in the correct order in his head before speaking them out loud. ‘I know it sounds silly, but ever since Dorypol threatened to drop me, I’ve been bloody terrified that even the tiniest mistake will cost me my record deal. _That’s_ why I went to that party, and why I didn’t text. It matters so much to me, this record deal. I don’t want to lose it by saying “no” to everyone.’

‘I know. I know how much it means to you,’ Mark adds, thinking, _I know, because_ I _used to work in the music business too._ ‘I just wish you’d texted. You know what I’m like – I worry about everything, don’t I? If I hadn’t gone to Dorypol I might have thought you’d been, I don’t know, kidnapped or something. All I needed was you telling me you were all right. Just one text.’

Gary pulls an ashamed face. ‘Yeah, I don’t really know where I went wrong there, to be honest. I think I just . . .’

‘Forgot?’ Mark finishes for him.

‘Yeah. Again, I’m sorry. And I’m not trying to justify it or anything, but me mind’s just been so bloody _full_ lately. I keep forgetting even the simplest things. I mean, just the other day I forgot to eat all day. Can you imagine, Marko? _Me?_ Not eating? That’s a sign we’re nearing the apocalypse, that.’

‘I think the apocalypse would be a lot easier to survive if you told your boyfriend what you’re up to,’ Mark points out. ‘You know, via text.’

‘I know. I _know_. I will, next time. It won’t ever happen again, this. Promise. Next time, I’ll text you. D’you know what – maybe I’ll just skip going to parties entirely next time. I’m getting way too old for this, I am; it took me a minute just to pick up a canapé, I was so tired.’

Mark laughs for the first time that night. Gary’s heart lifts. The entire room feels lighter.

‘Mind you,’ Gary adds, ‘I still feel bloody guilty. If only I could make it up to you.’

‘You’re here now,’ says Mark. He finds Gary’s hand on the mattress. ‘That’s all I need.’

‘You sure? It’s only three in the morning; I suppose we could still . . . I mean, I don’t know how sturdy this bed here is, but . . .’

‘Not now. Tomorrow, maybe. But not tonight.’

Gary nods. That seems fair. ‘Okay.’

‘You know, I’ve only just realised that I haven’t even bothered asking you how your day has been.’

‘Terrible, to be honest. I was bloody knackered by the end of it,’ Gary says. ‘My meeting with Dave from Dorypol went on for ages, and the party ended up being one of those boring ones where everyone’s stood in a room eating food the size of an ant. There wasn’t even any background music.’

Mark makes a face. ‘That sounds _awful._ ’

‘I know. It was.’

‘So you didn’t meet anyone interesting, then?’

‘Not really. The only people I talked to were journalists who wanted to know when I was planning to get me next record out. I didn’t tell them anything, of course. I’m going to give Ms Lloyd’s the scoop.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ms Lloyd – she’s the journalist from The Maily Dail who’s been writing about the school –, she e-mailed me earlier. She’s coming over during this term’s exam week. She wants to interview me about the school. And me music, I suppose.’

Mark frowns. He gets a rather unpleasant sort of feeling in his tummy. ‘She wants to do an interview? When?’

‘Friday. Maybe Thursday. I can’t really remember.’

Mark doesn’t seem so convinced. ‘I know you’re the head teacher now, but . . . do you really think it’s a good idea, inviting someone like Ms Lloyd to the school? I’m sure she’s actually a very nice lady, but the things she’s been writing haven’t been so nice.’

Gary shrugs. ‘At least if I show her round, there’s a chance that she’ll see some things she _does_ like and she’ll stop being so negative.’

‘I suppose that’s true,’ Mark shrugs, although he still doesn’t like the idea of a journalist walking around at school.

‘I suppose there’s _one_ good thing I’ll get out of this interview,’ Gary says vaguely.

‘And what’s that?’

‘Ms Lloyd coming round means I’ll be at school all day on Friday! Meaning, I won’t have to go to the record label, cos I’ll be too busy showing Ms Lloyd round.’ Gary gives Mark a conspiratorial nudge with his elbow, which makes Mark chuckle. ‘D’you know what, I think I’ll even be home in time for tea that day. How about that, eh? We might be getting back to normal yet, us two.’

Mark smiles. It’s been a while he and Gary have had tea together. ‘Does that mean you’ll finally cook for me again?’

‘If you want to.’

Mark nods.

‘Then that’s what we’ll do. On the day of Ms Lloyd’s visit, I’ll make you the best three-course meal you’ve ever had.’ Gary smiles, and just like that Mark isn’t angry at him for coming home late anymore. He’s not sure if he was ever that angry in the first place. ‘Sound good, Mr Owen?’

Mark feels warm all over. ‘Yeah. Sounds good.’

Content, Mark rests his head on Gary’s shoulder. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he feels Gary’s mouth touching his temple and saying “sorry” again, just in case.

With that, their row is over. All it took was an apology, the promise of food and the warmth of Gary’s body radiating against his own.   
  


# |LESSON EIGHTEEN: BUTTERED TOAST|

It is November. It is exam week, which means that all the usual lessons have been replaced with exams, assessments and resits. In other words, boring stuff. During previous school years, the quarterly exam week was a time when all Gary had to do was assess students’ piano skills in his piano lab – or mark essays that students had written about their favourite composers.

This term, things are different. Only three days into the week, Gary is already struggling. This week, he has to: assess students’ piano pieces, attend a million staff meetings, insert grades, meet Mrs Kennedy-Cairns about the event she wants to organise for the Music department next year, agree to next term’s brand new timetable, write new songs for his brand new album (this is not going well), meet the head of his record label, and, finally, meet Ms Lloyd from The Maily Dail.

Ms Lloyd is not a pleasant woman. She has written and published negative articles about the school ever since Mr Harrison got arrested. Her most popular article, “All teachers at CRITICISED art school are CORRUPT, says exclusive SOURCE” recently hit over a million views. Needless to say, Gary’s record label weren’t very happy with it. They want Gary to release a brand new album next year, you see, and it would appear that not all publicity is good publicity.

According to Dave from Dorypol U.K., Gary’s record sales have gone down since he became head teacher. People no longer stream his music as much as they did. He’s been losing followers on Twitter and Instagram ever since news broke that Mr Harrison is corrupt. The hype for his fifth studio album has faded into nothingness.

This is why, in the end, Gary agreed to invite Ms Lloyd to see the school for herself. Hopefully, the visit will make her realise that the school isn’t as bad as she thinks it is and stop writing about it.

Today, Wednesday, marks two more days until Ms Lloyd’s visit. It is also is the first morning Mark and Gary have spent together for ages, for Gary is always away on important head-teacher-and-pop-star business.

Mark’s already had two pieces of toast when Gary finally drags himself into the dining room, looking like a disoriented zombie. The room smells of toast and tea, but Gary is feeling so disoriented that he can barely smell anything.

‘Morning, Gaz,’ Mark says.

‘Morning, Mark,’ Gary replies. Even though he still remembers to give Mark a kiss on the cheek, he looks rather pressed for time, like the White Rabbit from the Alice in Wonderland stories. The only thing that’s missing is a pocket watch dangling from Gary’s coat; and Gary whispering ‘Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!’ at no-one in particular.

‘Why don’t you sit down and have some toast with me?’ Mark suggests, as he waves a hand at a half-full toast rack on the dining table in front of him. ‘I’ve made your favourite tea as well – look.’ And he indicates the teapot next to the toast rack.

Gary doesn’t bother sitting down but still shoves a big piece of toast into his mouth. He says something intelligible, toast flying everywhere.

Mark says, ‘What?’

Gary swallows down another piece of toast. He’s eating as if his life depends on it. ‘I’ve a meeting with Lou today. About next term.’

‘Is that why you can’t sit down and have breakfast with me?’

Gary nods. He takes another piece of toast. He shoves it into his mouth in its entirety. This time, he remembers to swallow before speaking again. (Insert joke about Gary swallowing stuff here.) ‘The meeting takes place in less than half an hour.’

Mark glances at the clock on the dining room wall. His eyes go wide. ‘It’s seven in the morning!’

Gary shrugs. ‘It’s the only gap in me diary I had. I’m pretty sure I told you about it.’

‘I thought you were joking!’

‘I wasn’t. Lou wants to meet me at 7:30. Hence the rushed breakfast.’ And Gary shoves another piece of toast into his throat, still not sitting down.

Mark tuts. ‘Will I be seeing you at school at all today, Gaz?’

‘Probably. I hope. I don’t know yet. Depends on how long me meeting with Lou takes. I’ll be at school all day on Friday, though. Ms Lloyd is coming around this week.’

‘Ms Lloyd from The Maily Dail, you mean?’

‘Yeah, mate. I’m showing her round, remember? I was up all night worrying about it. I’m really hoping she’ll stop writing about us once she’s seen the school for herself. No pressure there, eh? It shouldn’t take long, though. I’m thinking a quick tour through the school, then an interview with me and Lou in the piano lab.’

‘Will you still have time to meet _me_ on Friday?’ Mark butters a piece of toast with his butter knife. ‘We’ve got that meeting about M_SW2D, remember?’

Gary was about to take another bite of his toast. His arm freezes mid-air. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘M_SW2D. They’re the group I told you about a couple of weeks ago. They’re why I came to visit you at Dorypol.’

‘That’s not true – Rob told me you went to Dorypol because you wanted to shag me.’

‘Oh dear. Well. Yes. Wanting to see you was _one_ of the reasons,’ Mark clarifies, blushing. Gary looks victorious. ‘But it wasn’t the _only_ reason. I did also go there to talk about 2D, which is a group that is dealing with about a very bad case of bullying. We’re going to meet up with all of 2D’s teachers to see what we can do about it.’

The victorious look on Gary’s face disappears. ‘What, on _Friday?_ But that’s when I’m supposed to meet Ms Lloyd.’

‘Yes, on _Friday_.’ Mark shakes his head as if to say, _Can you believe this guy?_ ‘Don’t tell me it had slipped your mind, Gaz.’

‘No – no. Of course not,’ Gary lies. He rubs his nose, a red flush spreading across his cheeks.

‘Did you even put it in your diary?’

‘Of course,’ Gary lies.

‘So that’s a no, then. I’ll be _very_ cross with you if you don’t show up, Mr Barlow.’ Mark points his butter knife at Gary in a non-threatening manner. ‘I bet the meeting isn’t even at the same time as your visit from Ms Lloyd.’

‘Dunno. When’s _your_ meeting?’

‘At two,’ Mark says.

‘Mine’s at ten.’ Gary glances at the clock again, pressed for time.

‘That’s when _I_ have my Creative Writing exam,’ Mark says. An idea pops into his brain. ‘You know what, why don’t we go to work together on Friday? It’s been ages since we went to work together.’

Gary blows a raspberry. ‘ _Cor_ , that’s true, that, isn’t it? I can’t even remember the last time we were in the same car together.’

‘That’s settled, then,’ Mark says. He claps his hands together. ‘We _will_ go to work together, and when you’re finished talking to Ms Lloyd you _will_ come join me in my meeting. Agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ Gary says, before filling his mouth with yet more toast, for he is beginning to run slightly late, and he’s still hungry.

‘Have you put the meeting in your diary?’

Gary groans. If he doesn’t leave now, he’ll be late for his meeting with Lou. ‘I’m kinda running late here, mate. Do you mind if I put it in my diary later?’

Mark crosses his arms. ‘ _Yes_.’

‘But –’

‘No buts, Mr Barlow. I know what you’re like when you’re tired and when you have a lot of things to do. You almost forgot to teach last Wednesday! So yes, I think you should put it in your diary.’

Gary huffs, but he agrees to put the meeting in the diary on his phone anyway even though he is pressed for time.

With that, Gary decides it’s time to leave. He wants to give Mark a proper “saying goodbye” smooch on the mouth before nicking another piece of toast, but he gets the order a bit wrong. He ends up giving his boyfriend a snog that is rather full of toast, then almost falls over himself hurrying out of the house, for he is very late for his meeting with Mrs Kennedy-Cairns.

The front door shuts two seconds later, leaving Mark alone, but amused. Gary is weirdly adorable when he’s clumsy, like a new-born foal. It’s usually Mark who is the clumsy one at the penthouse, but lately Gary’s clumsiness seems to exceed even Mark’s. It’s gotten so bad that Gary once spent five minutes trying to open the front door with his Oyster card.

That being said, Gary’s clumsiness isn’t _always_ endearing. Gary’s clearly exhausted. He hardly sleeps. He works too hard, and everyone knows it, but there’s nothing anyone can do. At the end of the day, _Gary_ is the one saying “yes” to everyone, and no-one else. The only thing Mark can currently do is be there for him. Unconditionally. 

Once Mark has taken care of the mess on their breakfast table, Mark heads into the master bedroom to get changed for the day ahead. He opens a closet full of patterned dress shirts. One of the many advantages of living inside a penthouse is that there’s always enough space for your clothes.

Mark looks at the shirts in front of him. They’re a rainbow of colours. He rather likes the look of the navy blue shirt. He removes it from the wooden clothes hanger.

He gives the shirt a hard look, scrunches up his nose and puts the shirt back again. Maybe not.

His hands graze past yet more shirts: red ones, bright pink ones, flowery green ones and even a see-through dress shirt that shows off his chest. He takes a second to look at the former when he sees something sticking out of its right chest pocket.

Mark removes the item. It’s a small card. He turns it over inside his hand, revealing a name he hasn’t thought of for weeks. Josh from Dorypol. Josh, the _executive secretary_ who claimed he could help Mark get back into the music industry. Josh, with his clean teeth and a handsome smile.

Josh, who told him Gary cared only about himself.

Were any of the things Josh said true? Can he really help Mark with his music career? Was he right about Mark having to smart “small”, instead of trying to head straight to the top, like Mark wants to?

Mark doesn’t know. Josh seemed genuine and kind, but that didn’t stop the executive secretary from absolutely being a prick to Gaz. He seemed to hate Gary Barlow the pop star for no other reason than his popularity. Does Mark want to accept the help from someone who doesn’t like his boyfriend?

Unsure, Mark puts the business card inside his wallet. Just in case. A little help never hurt anyone.  
  


# |LESSON NINETEEN: MS LLOYD AND THE PARKING LOT|

It is Friday. It is the last day of this term’s exam week. Gary’s two failed proposals happened over a month ago. Teachers spend their days locked inside their classrooms, working against the clock to mark exams on time. In the auditorium, an end-of-term fashion show is taking place. Students have only eight more hours to hand in their art and music portfolios. Generally, the last day of the exam week is not too bad. No terrible things have ever happened during an exam week, which is partly why Gary invited Ms Lloyd, the journalist from The Maily Dail, to come round today. As we already know, Ms Lloyd is not a pleasant woman. She has written over a dozen articles about the school since Mr Harrison, the former head teacher, was arrested. Showing her round might be the only thing that will ever change her mind.

As well as meeting Ms Lloyd, Gary also has to attend an emergency meeting about a year-two Songwriting group in which a student, Jessica, is being bullied for no reason other than she is “different”.

Even though he put it in the diary on his phone just the other day, the meeting isn’t his priority. It’s not that he doesn’t care about kids being bullied, but Ms Lloyd is such a powerful woman in journalism that she’s all Gary can think of. He _has_ to impress her, or else.

A lot is riding on this interview, Gary keeps telling Mark. The future of the school might depend on it.

Mark seems not to care. As far as Mark’s concerned, Ms Lloyd is nothing more than a big bully. It’s why he cares so much about _his_ meeting – the one at 14:00 today. The one about the student from group 2D who is being bullied.

During the meeting, which involves all of 2D’s teachers, they will be talking about how they’re going to make the bullying stop. Meetings about bullying usually don’t lead to any changes, but Mark doesn’t want the school to ignore the issue either. Losing one student to bullying would feel as much of a defeat as the entire school closing down.

If only there was a way to make sure Gary won’t forget the meeting. Mark’s been reminding him of it all week, but Gary’s brain is like a sieve these days. All he cares about is Ms Lloyd and her visit to the school.

Gary’s nervousness hits rock bottom on Friday morning, two hours before Ms Lloyd is due to arrive at school. The first time Mark and Gary have been able to go to work together for ages, Gary is taking longer to drive to school than usual. Every time they stop at a red light, Gary starts tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, a wild look in his eyes; a dark song stuck in his head. He does not respond whenever Mark talks to him, which is just as well because he wouldn’t be able to get a word in anyway.

At half past eight, Gary finally parks the car in the school parking lot. They’d be running very late for their lesson if this was an ordinary workday, and yet Gary does not seem that willing to get out of the car.

Mark has never seen Gary look reluctant to go to work before. Gary is easily the most hardworking person he knows. Gary is the type of teacher who will show up at school an hour before the first period. Seeing him like this is slightly worrying, to say the least.

‘You’re worried about Ms Lloyd’s visit, aren’t ya?’ Mark asks him from the passenger seat. It’s a matter-of-fact question that pulls Gary firmly out of his trance.

Gary nods. Yet more finger-tapping on the steering wheel. There must be a song stuck in his head; a quick one, for his fingers do not stop. ‘I’m absolutely terrified, mate. I feel like it’s going to make or break the school, this interview. It’s going to make or break _me_.’

Mark doesn’t quite know what to say to that. While he’s not been reading any of Ms Lloyd’s articles, he does know how bad they are. If only there was a way of making Gary less nervous, then maybe his interview would go a lot better.

As Gary proceeds to stare out of the window, frozen, a car reverses into the empty space next to them. Mr Stevens get out of the car holding a saxophone.

Mark waves at their colleague from the passenger seat, then lowers his hand when he remembers that their car has tinted windows. Pop star windows. “Shagging in the backseat without anyone noticing” windows. Mark gets a little thrill in his tummy thinking about it.

Mark’s mouth twitches at the corners. They still have over an hour until Mark has to supervise his Creative Writing exam and Ms Lloyd shows up – more than enough time to make Gary relax.

‘When you say you’re nervous, Gaz –’ (Here, Mark places an innocent hand on Gary’s thigh; the first time he’s touched Gary’s body for weeks) ‘–how nervous _are_ you, exactly?’

‘More nervous than I’ve ever been.’ Gary lets out a deep sigh. He’s so busy tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and continuing to stare at the school in front of him, building up the courage to get out of the car, that he does not seem to be aware of Mark’s fingers squeezing him. 

Mark squeezes harder. ‘What if I said I knew a way to make you a little less tense, Mr Barlow?’

That gets Gary’s attention. He stops drumming his fingers on the steering wheel when he notices that Mark has put his hand on his thigh, squeezing him there. His mouth opens into a big ‘O’. The only thing he can say is ‘oh’ and then ‘ah’ when Mark vaguely tells him to move to the backseat, where the tinted windows allow for a bit more privacy.

A short journey out of and into the car later, they’re both sat on the backseat. It’s full of dog hair but Gary doesn’t notice, as Mark’s just asked him for permission to climb into his lap.

Gary says yes. Of course he does; he’s spent the past fortnight barely able to touch Mark’s hand.

Mark slides on top quickly. Gary can’t remember the last time he had Mark sat in his lap, looking at him like he might as well be the only person in the world. It’s been so long since they last made love that Gary almost can’t remember what it feels like.

But Mark does. He remembers everything Gary likes. All of it. Even the dirty talk and how much it turns Gary on. Their relationship may not have been perfect lately what with Gary being away a lot and attending dozens of meetings, but that still know how to make fireworks. The row they had a few weeks ago does not change how desperately Mark likes shagging Gary still – and how much he’d like to do it right here, in the car. In the backseat, with Mark doing all the fucking.

‘Why don’t you stop worrying your pretty little head and allow me to take care of you, hm?’ Mark purrs. Gary almost melts into the seat. ‘How’s that sound, Gaz? You want me to fuck you before we go to work?’

Gary nods a couple of times. He’s put his hands on Mark’s sides, guiding Mark as he rocks his hips back and forth, making Gary go hard inside his trousers. ‘I-I’d like that,’ he stammers, red in the face.

‘And if I fuck you, will you then promise to attend the meeting about 2D for me?’ Mark asks, ever the professional.

Meetings are the last thing on Gary’s mind right now, but he nods anyway, because Mark asks it so nicely. ‘Y-yeah. Yeah, I promise.’

‘Good lad,’ Mark whispers, and it’s the last thing he says before he starts taking all of Gary’s clothes off. Soon, the floor of the car starts filling with clothes: black Calvin Klein boxers, a purple dress shirt, Gary’s wine red suit jacket. The only clothes that haven’t landed in a puddle on the floor are Gary’s socks.

The size of the car makes for a rather awkward shag, but Gary doesn’t mind really; he willingly spreads and lifts his legs, allowing Mark _perfect_ access inside. If someone walked past now, they’d no doubt see Gary wrapping his legs around Mark’s waist like a desperate slag; and lithe Mark Owen making the best of the space they have, fucking Gary until he’s sore.

Thankfully, all the windows are tinted, so no-one will ever know. Only the dog bubblehead on top of the dashboard can bear witness to what the two teachers are doing; the first time they’ve shagged in weeks.

Is it perfect like their first time? Not quite. The size of the car doesn’t allow for that much movement. Mark gets so into it that he nearly bangs his head against the roof. Twice. He rather makes a mess of the backseat as he ejaculates deep inside, cum dribbling down Gary’s inner thighs.

But it was good, and soft (so good that Gary nearly asks Mark to marry him on the spot), and by the time they’ve cleaned themselves up, Gary’s completely forgotten to be nervous about his meeting.

***

At five to ten, Mark and Gary go their separate ways. Mark goes to the second floor, where a first-year Songwriting group is awaiting their Creative Writing exam. He’ll be the one supervising it.

After a brief visit to the restroom to freshen himself up, Gary hurries to the main hall to pick up Ms Lloyd. The sex must have worked: he has spent the past ten minutes thinking only about asking Mark to marry him rather than his upcoming interview.

He still regrets not being able to propose to Mark when he wanted to. He still hates that Dorypol phoned him right when he was about to propose to Mark on the rooftop. He still hates that he was too afraid to go through his proposal in bed a couple of weeks ago. He’d propose to Mark today if he could. But it has to be perfect, and right now his life is less than perfect.

The school is empty save for some students who still need to sit exams, so Gary spots the journalist easily. They shake hands. Ms Lloyd’s handshake is firm. Her smile is cold.

‘Good morning,’ says Ms Lloyd. She has short blonde hair and almond-shaped eyes.

‘Good morning, Ms Lloyd,’ Gary says, putting on his best “polite” voice. ‘I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the school?’

‘How could I?’ says the journalist. She adjusts the trap of the camera bag slung over her right shoulder, a dismissive look in her eyes. ‘This building is so garish you could see it from space. Is that an imitation of an Alexander Calder installation dangling from the ceiling? How perfectly _awful_.’

Gary ignores the comment. ‘Have you already seen the awards cabinet? Here – let me show you.’ Keen to stop Ms Lloyd from making unwarranted remarks about the artworks in the hallway, Gary directs Ms Lloyd’s attention to the main hall. It’s filled with artworks, but also several cabinets housing awards won by students from the Music department.

Ms Lloyd doesn’t seem impressed. She seems like the kind of journalist who cares more about cold facts and headlines than the people at the heart of her articles. It’s why her articles bother Gary so much: why does she never mention the wonderful events the school organises annually; or the students who lived off free school meals when they were younger and still ended up exceeding everyone’s expectations at university? Why doesn’t she bother taking any photos of the awards he is showing her? Gary wish she’d write about _that_.

‘Why don’t I show you round, eh?’ Gary asks. He knows he is losing the journalist’s attention already. ‘There’s a fashion show being held in the auditorium – I could take you there, if you want.’

‘Is the fashion show part of the Music curriculum, Mr Barlow?’

‘No, but –’

‘Then I’m not interested in it. I came here to report on the Music department, not some fashion show intended just to impress _me_.’ Ms Lloyd cocks her head to one side. Her eyes look like slits, not unlike a snake’s. ‘Unless you don’t have anything of value to show me, of course.’

A cold sweat breaks out on Gary’s forehead. He realises then that he hasn’t really thought this visit through. Apart from a bunch of extra-curricular activities and that one fashion show, there are no lessons for Ms Lloyd to attend. There are hardly any teachers to interview. How can he possibly show Ms Lloyd how good the school is when there aren’t any lessons taking place?

Unless . . .

An idea pops into Gary’s head then. It’s a risk, but it’s a risk he’ll have to take. If Ms Lloyd’s main objective is writing scathing articles about how badly Mr Harrison’s exam exploits have affected the school, Gary might as well flip everything she’s been writing on its head.

He’s going to show her the exam Mark is invigilating. Right now.

‘Follow me, Ms Lloyd.’

Gary leads the journalist to the second floor. Every couple of seconds, the journalist stops to take photographs of their surroundings: the art projects hanging on the walls; and the staff room with its malfunctioning coffee machine. They also happen to walk past Mr Williams in the computer lab, who just so happens to be in the middle of a Very Serious chat with a student. The chat was staged, of course. _That_ much Gary has planned.

As they walk through the former warehouse, the journalist asks Gary many questions. ‘Have you ever had any colleagues who weren’t qualified?’ ‘What is the school planning to do with the decreasing student numbers?’ ‘What are you and Mrs Kennedy-Cairns going to do to make the school popular again?’ ‘How have students responded to the Mr Harrison court case?’ ‘Is it true that your record label have threatened to drop you?’

The questions do not scare Gary. He may not have thought her visit through, but he does know how to deal with annoying interviewers. He answers every question with perfect vagueness, avoiding giving Ms Lloyd fully-formed answers and spinning them into something completely unrelated.

He also completely ignores the question about his record label, of course. Ms Lloyd does not need to know that he hasn’t written a new song for ages. 

Finally, they arrive at a locked door, beyond which is a classroom. Someone’s taped a paper saying “EXAM IN PROGRESS – PLEASE KNOCK FIRST (thank you very much)” to the door.

Ms Lloyd eyes the piece of paper on the door sceptically. ‘What are we doing here?’

‘Isn’t it obvious? We’re going to supervise an exam, Ms Lloyd.’

Ms Lloyd scoffs. It’s the closest thing to seeing her laughing. ‘What? A _real_ one?’

‘Of course. You’ve been writing about our exams, haven’t you? You only ever seem to write about how absolutely terrible we are at supervising them.’

‘I can’t help what my sources tell me,’ Ms Lloyd shrugs.

‘Your source was wrong,’ Gary points out. ‘I know your source says otherwise, but we’d never willingly tamper with an exam, we wouldn’t. Just because Mr Harrison liked playing with our students’ futures doesn’t mean everyone _else_ does.’

Ms Lloyd crosses her arms. There’s a sceptical look on her face. ‘Mr Harrison got away with his actions for over three _years_ before he got arrested. How can you be sure that someone new isn’t tampering with exams again as we speak?’

‘Because I have faith in my teachers. Mr Harrison never did. That’s why _I’m_ a good head teacher, and he wasn’t.’ Gary can feel his cheeks burning. He’s never called himself a good head teacher before, but he reckons he’s more than earned it. ‘I know you think the school has been worsening ever since I became head teacher, but I think you’re forgetting what a head teacher _does_. I wasn’t given the job just so the school could grab more headlines – I was given the job because I’m a good fucking teacher, which Harrison never was. I _care_. _He_ didn’t. I care about everything.’

‘Including your exams, then?’

Gary makes a face as if to say, _Isn’t it obvious?_

Ms Lloyd doesn’t seem convinced. She looks at the piece of paper on the door, barely held in place by washi tape. ‘So you’re saying that if I entered the classroom beyond this door, I would find that the exam is being held according to the rules we all know and expect from schools?’

‘Of course. I’ll show you – but only on one condition. I don’t want you taking any photographs, all right? And no interviewing any students either.’

The journalist narrows her eyes. ‘As inviting as this sounds, wouldn’t allowing a journalist to witness an official examination compromise its validity?’

‘Not unless you were planning to give the students the answers.’

Ms Lloyd’s dull cheeks turn pink. ‘I’d – I’d never –’

‘I know. Neither would I. That’s the thing, Ms Lloyd – I have nothing to hide. None of us do. I know that you think all the teachers here are terrible human beings, but we’re not.’ Gary knocks, then presses his key card against the digital lock on the door. There’s a challenging look in his eyes as if he’s just challenged Ms Lloyd to a duel. ‘Why don’t I prove it to you right now, eh?’

Slowly – confidently –, Gary enters the classroom. He was expecting an oasis of calm and quiet, but what he finds is not calm and quiet at all.

What he finds is better.

It turns out Mr Owen’s Creative Writing exam is not an “exam” at all. It’s a project. A graded one, but still – a project. As they enter the classroom, Ms Lloyd is welcomed not by the sight of students diligently answering questions on a piece of paper in total silence, but chaos. Organised chaos. Here, she finds students taping washi tape to a piece of paper; there, she finds a student cutting out the lyrics of a song.

Every student is working on some sort of bullet journal by the looks of it. The teacher – Mark – is walking around the classroom handing out art materials and reminding his students how much time they have left. ‘Fifteen minutes left!’ he shouts, which makes some students panic visibly. Everyone’s so hard at work that they have barely noticed Ms Lloyd’s presence.

Ms Lloyd looks at Gary for answers. ‘I thought you said I’d be seeing an exam in progress, Mr Barlow?’

‘You are,’ says Gary. He is having to pretend as though he knew about this all along. He, too, thought they’d be seeing a traditional exam taking place, with everyone working in silence and not daring to look up from their papers. ‘The project the students are working on – they’ll be graded for it, they will. Not every grade has to come from a written exam. That’s one of the advantages of this school: students do something different every day. If I had to choose between our students nailing a boring maths exam or nailing a project that challenges their creativity, I’d always choose the latter. Even if it means challenging what people’s traditional ideas of what an exam should be like.’

Ms Lloyd is clearly struggling with what she is seeing: students working on their project with smiles on their faces; cut-outs of original songs covering their desks; the rules of the project written out on a whiteboard; the cheerful teacher in the corner, reminding the students how much time they have left. She cares deeply about facts, always trusting detail over the heart, and yet the main “fact” she has just discovered is that exams can be a time for _joy_ , not just stress and strict rules.

‘Let’s go somewhere else,’ says the journalist, hissing her words rather. She averts her face from the scene in front of them. She looks like she’s just tasted a sour prune. ‘I think I’ve seen enough now, _thank_ you.’

Gary glances at Ms Lloyd, then at Mark, who is waving at him shyly. There are glitters all over his palm. A piece of washi tape is stuck to his hair, and yet he still looks like the sexiest teacher in the world. ‘Are you sure? You could talk to the teacher in charge, if you want.’

Ms Lloyd flicks her hair off her right shoulder. ‘No thanks.’

Ms Lloyd lets herself out, huffing and grunting rather. Desperate to see something she _does_ hate, the journalist demands to be shown the entire school. Apart from her getting rather tepid coffee from the coffee machine in the staff room, she finds nothing worth writing a scathing article about. The school is clean. She is spared the sight of mice running across the canteen floor. The room where all the written exams are being kept is nowhere near as messy as she thought it’d be. Her brief interview with one Mr Williams, a support teacher, is rather enlightening; she never knew of the extent of the support students can get at schools. She even enjoys the extra-curricular dance class by Mr Orange, which features students of all abilities acting out a complicated dance routine.

On paper, the school is perfect. Annoyingly so.

Of course, no school is ever without its faults. You have schools where students are so poor that they can barely afford to buy pens. You have schools where students dread the moments their lessons end because they don’t have anywhere else to go. You have schools where all the teachers are overworked. You have schools where the staff shortages are so bad that the schools have to close its doors once a week.

In comparison, the VCMA isn’t that bad really.

***

At 2:05 p.m., Gary and Ms Lloyd arrive where the visit began: in the main hall, in front of the reception desk; a “garish” art installation dangling above their heads. Gary’s already running late for his meeting with Mark, but he doesn’t want to let Ms Lloyd go yet. She did ask for an interview, after all.

‘I’ve shown you all there is to show you now,’ Gary says, gesturing at their surroundings: the main hall leading into five different directions, and the large staircase beyond. ‘We could still do that interview you asked for, if you want.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ says Ms Lloyd, putting her large DSLR camera back into her shoulder bag. ‘As much as I hate to admit it, it would appear I was wrong about you, Mr Barlow. I thought I would find a school that is poorly managed, but instead I find a school where students and teachers alike rather seem to enjoy themselves.’

‘I’m happy to hear that, but we’re not perfect, I’m afraid. There’s been a lot of bullying at school lately – some of it very recently. It’s become a massive issue for us, bullying has.’

Ms Lloyd raises her eyebrows. She looks as if she’s about to get out her notepad to write down this fact, then thinks better of it. ‘I’m surprised you’d admit that. I thought head teachers were supposed to be positive about their schools, always.’

‘As I said – I’ve nothing to hide. You’re not going to build a better school by pretending that everything is perfect. Then again, it doesn’t help that our school is currently being bullying by _your_ newspaper. When our students read that, they’ll think they can get away with everything.’

Ms Lloyd looks surprised. ‘I – I didn’t know that.’

‘I think you did, though. Schools aren’t isolated little islands, Ms Lloyd. When something bad happens in the community, it’ll affect everyone here. When we lose a student to illness, or worse, everyone will feel it. If a teacher suddenly has to leave, everyone will know it. Even the parents. So when someone suddenly decides to write about the school negatively, it’ll impact the entire school, that will. Students might decide that bullying people is a good thing. You’ve seen for yourself how good the school can be – I hope you’ll write about it accordingly.’

‘Even if I do, it’s not going to change how people feel, Mr Barlow,’ Ms Lloyd warns. ‘Students won’t miraculously return to the school if I stop writing about it. Parents will still be following the Mr Harrison court case, questioning how someone like Mr Harrison was ever made head teacher. They’ll still question _you_. Doesn’t that worry you?’

‘Not really. I’ve nothing to prove anymore. Now, our students – _they’re_ the ones who need to prove themselves, they are. As long as they show everyone how good they are, the future of the school is safe, I reckon.

‘Of course, we’ll still be organising an event to improve public opinion next year. But it’s all down to the kids, in the end. Not me.’ Gary glances at a clock above the reception desk. He’s running _very_ late for his meeting with Mark. ‘Now, are you sure you don’t have any more questions? Cos I’d kinda like to attend another meeting, if that’s all right.’

Ms Lloyd shakes her head. ‘I’ve got everything I need, Mr Barlow – thank you.’

With that, Gary shakes Ms Lloyd’s outstretched hand and sprints up the stairs, late for his meeting with Mark. Ms Lloyd stays behind on her own. Will what she writes next change public opinion about the school? Perhaps not. The school has to do a lot of work still. But it’s a start, at least, and for once the journalist doesn’t think the school isn’t that terrible.  
  


# |LESSON TWENTY: A POSITIVE END TO THE DAY?|

It’s 2:15. The meeting about 2D was due to start fifteen minutes ago. All of 2D’s teachers are here: Ms Brooke, Ms Nas, Mr Stevens, Mr Owen, Mrs Smith, Mr Williams (support teacher to 2D) and Mr Norton, their group mentor. Everyone is here but Mr Barlow.

Mr Norton glances at a rather ugly-looking clock above the door. They’re in a classroom that smells of mothballs, and where all the desks are broken. ‘We’ve been waiting for Gary to get here for the past half hour,’ says Mr Norton. There’s a big pile of files on the desk in front of him: personal notes he wrote about his students. ‘Are we sure we shouldn’t just start the meeting without him?’

‘He’s probably still with Ms Lloyd, the journalist from The Maily Dail,’ Mark pipes in. He shifts in his seat uncomfortably. There’s a worried look on his face. Why is Gary not _here?_ He promised he’d be here, didn’t he? ‘Let’s give him five more minutes and then move on.’

‘He’s already _had_ fifteen,’ grumbles Ms Nas, a woman who is as wide as she is tall. A very strict teacher, she teaches the less creative subjects like Maths and Sociology, which everyone likes to claim are very important but aren’t really. She also detests tardiness. ‘Let’s get this over quickly so we can all continue marking our exams and go home early.’

‘Yes, let’s,’ says Mr Stevens. ‘There’s a program about saxophones on BBC Four tonight that I don’t want to miss.’

‘I’m not sure if we even really _need_ him, anyway,’ says Mrs Smith, who teaches Musicianship.

‘Of _course_ we need him,’ says Mark, feeling both protective and nervous, for it’s not like Gary to miss a meeting even when he is overworked. ‘He’s the head teacher, isn’t he? Everything we decide today has to go through him.’

‘Not necessarily,’ says Ms Nas, who has been working as a teacher for twenty years, and therefore believes she no longer has anything left to learn. ‘We’re all professionals. We don’t need to be told what to do during our lessons by the _higher-ups_.’

There are sounds of agreement from everyone but Mark and Rob. Hearing it makes Mark’s heart ache. Gary should _be_ here. Why can’t he attend the _one_ meeting that also involves his boyfriend? Is this another case of Gary prioritizing his music career over his students? Is Gaz sat in a comfortable classroom somewhere right now, giving Ms Lloyd the scoop about his next album instead of caring about his students, like he should?

Mark sighs. Rob squeezes his hand for comfort. He’s about to become a bit moody and irritable (like a grumpy puppy) when there’s a knock on the door. He sits up straight. There’s the sound of the digital lock being opened from the other side of the door with a key card.

Mark’s heart lifts. Could it _be?_

The door opens slowly, and in walks Gary Barlow, holding several cups of coffee on a tray. There’s one cup for each colleague.

Mark feels better instantly. He glances at Rob, who winks at him conspiratorially. _He made it._

‘I’m so sorry I’m late, everyone. Journalists, eh? I just couldn’t get rid of her, she wanted to ask me so many questions. But I got all of you your favourite drink to make up for it.’

Mrs Smith sceptically eyes the cup Gary hands her. ‘Is it almond latte with vanilla?’

Gary pretends to be offended. ‘ _Mrs Smith._ What on Earth do you take me for? Of _course_ it’s almond latte with vanilla. I do pay attention, you know. Here, Rob – a frappuccino for you. Ms Brooke, a Signature Hot Chocolate with whipped cream for _you_.’

Gary benevolently hands everyone their drinks. He saves Mark’s for last: a medium Earl Grey, just like the one Mark had when they had their first date; many, many moons ago, when life was still simple.

Mark deliberately touches Gary’s hand with his fingertips when he takes the cup. There’s an indecipherable look in his eyes that only Gary can read. A bedroom look. ‘ _Thank_ you, Mr Barlow.’

‘Glad to be of service, Mr Owen,’ Gary says, smiling at Mark as though he is the only person in the room.

‘Yes, Gary, _thank_ you,’ says Ms Nas, who’s been given a rather tasty chai latte. ‘I must say, I didn’t think you’d show up.’

‘Neither did I, to be honest,’ Gary admits as he sits himself down in the empty chair between Mark and Mr Norton, 2D’s group mentor. ‘That journalist hardly wanted to leave, she loved the school so much.’

‘So it went well, then?’ asks Ms Brooke, who has been actively avoiding the journalist’s articles.

‘Very well, yeah. I think she might even stop writing about us now.’ Gary’s beaming. He glances at Mark, who is looking very small and red and adorable in the chair next to him. The classroom is so small that there’s barely any space between them. ‘Mind you, it helped that Mr Owen here told me to stop being so bloody nervous about it. Mark does _great_ pep talks, Mark does.’

Rob snorts. Mark turns even redder. He puts his cup to his lip and swallows a big gulp of tea when Gary’s hand curls around his thigh and squeezes him there; right where his thigh meets his crotch. It’s just a quick squeeze really, but it’s so reminiscent of fucking Gary in the car this morning that Mark’s temperature rises considerably.

It’s a good thing the bottom half of his body is hidden underneath a desk, or else his colleagues might start asking him some very awkward questions about why it looks like he’s got a whiteboard marker stuck in his trousers.

‘I didn’t know you were so worried about that journalist coming round,’ says Ms Nas. Like everyone else, she does not notice what Gary is doing underneath the table. ‘She must be some powerful woman to make you nervous, Gary.’

‘Not nearly as nervous about my meeting with _you_ ,’ Gary says, changing the subject when he sees Mr Norton glancing at the papers on his desk: a pile of notes about his students. ‘Poor Jessica, eh? I can’t believe this group has become so awful – they were so kind to each other in their first year.’

Mark nods. ‘They were my favourite group then.’

‘Same here,’ says Mr Norton. ‘I thought I wouldn’t have to put any work in when I became their mentor this year. Turns out I was wrong when they started bullying Jessica, bless her. I think Mimi and Naima are her only friends, bless her.’

With that, the conversation moves to Jessica from 2D, just as they’d intended. We need not describe the meeting here, for it is very boring. The teachers agree on many things, like removing students when they so much say a bad thing about each other, and taking extra care that Jessica feels safe, but none of them will ever really come to fruition. Teachers can spend many hours talking about how they want to improve the school, but you can’t ever change everything. It’s not until Jessica switches courses three weeks from now and joins the Art department – proudly wearing the comic book hoodies that she was being bullied for – that the bullying stops for good. Sometimes, certain problems at schools solve themselves.

Mr Norton, 2D’s mentor, still gave the group a stern talking-to, though. Just in case.

As for problems solving themselves, Mark reckons the same is true for him and Gary. For a moment, he did genuinely think Gary would miss the meeting. Then Gary came anyway, and all was well. Ms Lloyd’s visit went well. The meeting about 2D went well. Even their drive to work that morning exceeded all expectations.

In fact, today might very well be Mark’s favourite day of the entire term, for it had everything he could ever have wanted. It had: waking up with Gaz in the morning; going to work together; making love in the car; a successful interview with Ms Lloyd; a fruitful exam where nothing went wrong (by the looks of it, everyone has passed); going home together for the first time in weeks; and even Gary cooking for Mark in the penthouse at six in the evening.

And yet. Even as the boys make love again in the penthouse that evening, with Mark bent over some antique desk, Gary’s prick filling him up inside, Mark can’t help but want . . . more. He wants “more” not just from Gary, who is fucking him so well (and whispering all the right words into his ear), but from the universe. Mark wants the universe to grant him his final wish.

No, not _that_. Not marriage. Not yet. Right now, the one thing that Mark thinks would make his life even more perfect is a record deal. Or another job in music, at least.

He knows he oughtn’t to think about the music industry just as he’s got Gary’s prick inside of him, but he can’t get the thought out of his mind. He _wants_ this. More than ever.

This is why, when the boys crawl into bed that night, the first thing Mark does is write someone a text. He tells Gary that he’s texting Rob, but he’s actually in the middle of writing a text to Josh from Dorypol on his smartphone.

Josh, Dave Dorypol’s executive secretary. Josh, who hated Gaz. Josh, who claimed he could help Mark get back into the music industry.

Josh, who is not who he claims he is.

Of course, Mark cannot yet see that. Mark Owen, who always says please and thank you, cannot possibly recognise how dangerous Josh is, even for a “mere” secretary. Gary would see it from a mile off, but Gary doesn’t know about Josh, for Mark isn’t planning to tell him about it. How could he, when Gary is otherwise so busy with his own music career?

No, it has to stay a secret, this. A big secret that starts as just a small text on Mark’s phone, minutes after he’s made love to his boyfriend.  
  


— _Hi, Josh. It’s me, Mark. Mark Owen. We met at Dorypol. You told me you could help me get back into the music industry. Think you could meet me next month? I’ve got some stuff I wanna discuss with you if that’s all right with you._  
  


He goes over the text again, removes any emojis, then hits “send”; not quite realising that Josh is the kind of guy all music teachers warn their students about.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Gary is busy doing boring head teacher stuff in his office, Mark meets someone whom he hopes can help him return to the music industry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter – which features some office smut – could also very well have served as a stand-alone fic about Mark’s position in the music industry.

# |LESSON TWENTY-ONE: READING THE PAPERS|

If there’s one thing Gary hates about being head teacher, it’s all the boring administrative stuff. He has spent the entire day sat in his office, signing one form after another. He must have signed about twenty forms in total: permission forms; emergency contact forms; medical forms; exam attendance lists; textbook inventory forms; assignment lists; print-outs of next term’s timetables. It’s boring as fuck. It’s only three in the afternoon, and Gary’s already beginning to doze off inside his very chair.

At five past three, there’s a knock on the door. The door was fit with a digital lock when the office was made, meaning you can only enter it when you have a special key card. The only person with a key card is Gary. The plus side of this is that Gary can do whatever he wants in his office without having to be afraid of getting caught. The downside, of course, is that he has to get up from his chair every time someone knocks on his door, which happens about a million times per day.

There’s another knock. Reluctantly, Gary gets up. He feels exhausted. It’s autumn, so he has not seen the sun all day, which is making him very tired and grumpy. He yawns, twice. He opens the door. He feels less tired immediately.

‘Mr Owen! Come in, mate.’

Gary lets Mark in. He closes the door behind him. Today is the first day of the new term, which is always a bit special because it’s a fresh start for everyone. Even if you received only bad grades in the first term, it does not matter. The moment a new term begins, a student’s slate is wiped clean. 

To celebrate the occasion, Mark is wearing one of his best outfits: a patterned grey dress shirt with a waistcoat on top, one of those tight grey ones that makes him look skinny. His hair is a little longer than Gary remembers it being; perfect for pulling. His trousers show off his arse. In other words, he looks phenomenal.

Mark spots the pile of forms on the desk. ‘That’s a lot of forms, Mr Barlow.’

‘It is. _Many_ forms,’ Gary says. He can’t stop staring at Mark’s chest. The top button of his grey dress shirt is undone, giving Gary a perfect peek of Mark’s skin. ‘I probably won’t be finished until the sun goes down, to be honest. I keep wondering if I should just make all these forms disappear so I can go home early.’

‘Your forms would probably disappear a lot quicker if you allowed me to give someone to give a hand, you know. You could ask _me_ for help.’

Mark pronounced the words “hand” and “help” with such emphasis that Gary has turned slightly red. When Mark talks about hands and other body parts, Gary’s mind always goes into the gutter.

Which is just as well, because Mark’s mind is currently in the gutter too. He has gone full-on flirting mode, biting his lip and looking Gary up and down. When your boyfriend has his very own office that only one person has the key to, you might as well make the most of it.

‘All you need to do is ask, you know,’ Mark purrs. ‘I’d do _anything_ for you. And I do mean anything, Mr Barlow . . .’

Steam starts coming out of Gary’s ears. A wave of nervousness hits him. He’s forgotten how to talk.

Mark asks him again. _Do you want my help_ , he asks, meaning, _do you want to mess around in here?_ Gary stammers “yes”. The word comes out of him like a throat leaping out of his throat. 

Grinning, but not saying anything, Mark takes Gary by the hand to his desk chair. He puts his finger to his lips, then indicates the chair with a wave of his hand. Nervous, Gary sits. He lets out a soft expletive when Mark sinks on his knees on the floor. He starts unbuckling Gary’s belt with an eerie familiarity. Within less than five seconds, Gary’s trousers are down at his ankles.

Then his boxers go. Mark takes them off with his teeth.

Gary has a brief panicky moment of not-being-entirely-sure-whether-or-not-Mark-closed-the-door-properly now when Mark takes his dick inside his fist. Mark rubs it up and down, feeling it harden inside his right hand. Mark always seems to know exactly how to touch Gaz: slow strokes up and down, alternated with quick ones. It’s like his hands and short fingers were made especially for wanking Gary off.

‘Do you want more, Mr Barlow?’ Mark purrs.

Gary moves his head into something that is half a nod, half a shake. ‘More,’ he stammers, and more is what he gets. He tilts back his head while his very hard cock disappears into Mark’s warm mouth; Mark’s tongue playing with the tip; his hands fondling his balls. As ever, Mark knows exactly what to do with his mouth, letting Gary’s cock slip deeper and deeper inside; small choking noises coming from his throat. 

Gary’s own hands have disappeared into Mark’s long hair, which has become oh so perfect for pulling and tugging and playing with. He guides Mark closer and closer until the entire length of his cock has disappeared into his boyfriend’s warm throat, cum and saliva dribbling down his pretty face.

That’s when someone knocks on the door.

Gary jolts awake. Where there was previously a very attractive man sat between his legs, there is now nothing but air. He lets out a sound of disappointment: his visit from Mark was nothing but a pleasant dream. He’d fallen asleep right above his paperwork. He can tell, because there’s a very large dribble of drool on one of his permission forms. What a mess. He really needs to stop going to bed late.

There’s a second, harder knock. Gary gets rid of the form that he drooled on, leaves a post-it on his desk saying that he needs to get another copy of it, runs his right hand through his hair, checks himself in the reflection of a cabinet (he looks dreadful) and opens the door, yawning.

‘Gary Barlow! Stop yawning. I have news.’

It’s Mrs Kennedy-Cairns. She enters Gary’s office without asking for permission. She’s holding a newspaper. It’s the newspaper Ms Lloyd writes for. It’s that Monday’s edition, by the looks of it. ‘Look at this, Gary.’

Ms Kenney-Cairns has opened the newspaper on page twelve, which features a column written by Ms Lloyd. It is about the school, of course. It’s the first piece of writing Ms Lloyd has published since she visited the school three days ago.

Gary daren’t read it. ‘This column, is it positive, or . . .?’

‘I don’t know! I haven’t read it yet. I was hoping _you’d_ read it _for_ me.’

‘You’re my boss, aren’t you?’ Gary points out. ‘Doesn’t that mean _you_ should read the article first and then tell me if I should hand in me resignation?’

Mrs Kennedy-Cairns makes a face. ‘I don’t think that’s how it works, Gary Barlow. Nice try, though! Please read the article.’ And she sinks into the chair in front of Gary’s desk, her hand underneath her chin. In spite of her size, the school’s executive head teacher can be weirdly intimidating.

Gary sits too and reluctantly reads the column out loud. We will spare you the entire article, for it would take far too many words, but the gist of it is that Ms Lloyd feels bad about writing about the school as though it was a showbiz exposé, and that the school isn’t that bad as she thought.

Nevertheless, she concludes her article rather negatively still, saying, “ _They say pop stars are only as good as their last albums. I can only hope Gary’s new position as head teacher will be as successful as his stratospheric pop star career. If not, then I don't whether the school has what it takes to return to its former glory. Sometimes, even pop stars can’t change the world.”_

Gary puts down the newspaper on his desk. His eyebrows have moved very high up his forehead.

‘Where’s the rest of it?’ asks Mrs Kennedy-Cairns.

‘That’s it, I’m afraid.’ Gary looks conflicted. The article wasn’t what he was hoping it would be.

Mrs Kennedy-Cairns folds her arms on Gary’s desk. ‘Well! I suppose it isn’t entirely negative, but it isn’t entirely positive, either.’

‘I think we can be sure that Ms Lloyd won’t write about us again, at least.’ Gary closes the newspaper and folds it up slowly. He’s been staring at the newspaper so hard that there’s a brand new crease in his forehead that wasn’t there several minutes ago. ‘She’s seen how good the school is now. The problem is, she’s got a point about the school having to return to what it used to be. We need more, don’t we?’

‘We need something special,’ Mrs Kennedy-Cairns nods. ‘But _what?_ I know you’ve been trying to work with the event proposals the school council came up with, but . . .’

‘It’s been hard.’ Gary frowns. He pinches the bridge of his nose, where he can feel a headache blooming. He’s terribly tired. ‘I’ve been thinking about maybe organising a talent show open to all students, or maybe even expanding it to the entire community, but that’s all I have. I haven’t really had any time to think about it properly, to be honest.’

‘We do need _something_ , though,’ Lulu insists. ‘Soon. We _need_ something to remind people how good we are.’

‘I know. We’ll think of something. Promise. But I don’t know how I’m gonna organise this massive public event for the Music department when I haven’t even been able to write any new _songs_.’

Lulu looks surprised. ‘You’ve been struggling to write new songs? That doesn’t sound like you!’

‘I know. I’m usually a lot better at it, writing new songs under pressure. I think I wrote me fourth album in little over two weeks, and it still went to number one.’ Gary scratches his cheek. ‘But this fifth record – it’s been hard, it has. I often wonder whether I’ve forgotten how to write a song entirely.’

Gary sighs. He looks at the photos on the surrounding walls: photos of him and his colleagues, but also photos of him and celebrities. Pop stars. Famous actors. Fellow artists. People Ms Lloyd has written a dozen articles about. No matter how much he stares at the picture frames on the wall, he cannot seem to find the inspiration necessary to write a brand new song. ‘I don’t know why, or how, but I’ve got a serious case of writer’s block. It’s why I spend so much time at the record label – it takes me three hours just to write a single lyric these days.’

‘I’m surprised. You’d think you’d have more to write about now that you’re, you know, _in love_.’ A clever woman, Mrs Kennedy-Cairns guessed that Gary and Mark were an item even long before Howard and Jay did. ‘Can’t you write a song about _him?_ You’re great at love songs! You’ve practically invented them.’

‘I’ve tried, but it’s like the universe isn’t letting me. Every time I sit down to write, I’ll get another call from a colleague asking me for help; or worse, Dave from Dorypol telling me to get a move on. The inspiration fades before I can so much do something with it.’

Mrs Kennedy-Cairns looks understandably concerned. She’s never seen Gary struggling with his creativity. ‘Gary, if you need me to get someone else to organise that event for us . . .’

Gary shakes his head. Even though he is tired – so tired that he can barely keep his eyes open – he still hasn’t quite learned how to say “no”. Besides, out of everyone at school, Gary is the only person remotely skilled enough to make an event happen. He knows that if he says “no”, there won’t be any events taking place at all. He’s got no other choice.

‘I just need time, is all.’ Gary does that thing when you’re trying to hide a yawn by yawning with your mouth closed. ‘Give me a couple of weeks, and I promise I’ll have an event proposal ready for you. It’s just a matter of prioritising, this.’

‘I’d prefer it if you prioritised yourself and your _partner_ ,’ the executive head teacher says. ‘Weren’t you going to propose to him?’

Gary shakes his head. ‘It didn’t work out. The first time, Dorypol asked me to come over, and I absolutely chickened out during the second attempt.’

‘You chickened out? Why?’

‘It felt too soon, for some reason. I can’t see myself having another opportunity to propose again for the rest of the term. I might as well put it off until I’ve put me next record out.’

‘And is that what you want? Postponing proposing?’

Gary shrugs. He closes his eyes for a second. ‘It’s the way it has to be.’

Lulu makes a face. ‘This doesn’t sound like you, Gary Barlow. You shouldn’t give up! I reckon all you need is a good–’

Lulu’s sentence is caught short when there’s the sound of an incoming text. It comes from Gary’s phone. He checks the message with the energy of a sloth. On his lock screen, he can see that Mark has texted him about an upcoming appointment.

‘Anything important?’ asks Mrs Kennedy-Cairns.

Gary swipes his smartphone unlocked. ‘It’s Mark, speaking of the devil. Do you mind if I text him back? I’ve been trying to get back to his texts quicker. You know, texting him back within five minutes instead of keeping him wait for three bloody hours like I used to. You’d be surprised how much it’s improved our relationship, Lou – it’s been amazing. What did you want to tell me, by the way? Before me phone went off?’

Mrs Kennedy-Cairns waves an indifferent hand in the air. ‘It can wait, Gary Barlow. I’ve been meaning to have a long and stern chat with Mrs Stohl anyway, now what I think of it.’

‘Sounds important.’

‘It is to _her_.’ Mrs Kennedy-Cairns gets up from her chair and puts the copy of The Maily Dail back into her handbag. ‘Mrs Stohl wants to start up another Claymation course starting next school year, but after what happened last time . . .’ She shivers involuntarily. ‘No, I think I’ll tell Mrs Stohl we won’t be teaching Claymation again. It’d only traumatise those involved with the _incident_ a couple of years ago. I still get shivers down my spine thinking about it, don’t you, Gary?’

Mrs Kennedy-Cairns chuckles softly Gary appears to have dozed off.

Slowly, Lulu leaves Gary’s office. It’s not until the door shuts softly behind her that Gary manages to open his eyes again. He’s so tired that he fell asleep while Lulu was talking to him.

In the meantime, Mark has texted him twice.

Gary rubs the sleep from his eyes and reads his two texts, alone. Lulu did him the courtesy of closing the door of his office, so he can check his texts without having to worry about students walking in and bothering him. His eyesight blurred, it takes him three tries to read the texts in their entirety.

— ** _Mark:_** _Hiya Gaz, how are you doing? I hope you’re not working too hard … you looked so tired this morning….. Anyway, I’m in a boring meeting right now and I’m also meeting a friend at Starbucks later so I’ll probably be home a little bit later than usual. I hope you don’t mind._ [Here, Mark has included an emoji of an angel with a halo.]

— ** _Mark:_** _Why don’t I cook for you tomorrow to make up for it? How’s curry sound?_

— ** _Gary:_** _Curry sounds good ! And I don’t mind u coming late btw – there’s some forms that I need to fill in and there’s loads of them so it’ll probably take me ages ! Hope u have fun anyway x_

— ** _Gary:_** _Tell you what, though – I had a cracker of a dream about u when I was having a kip in me office earlier …_

— ** _Mark:_** _You fell asleep in your office???_

— ** _Gary:_** _I know. TWICE ! Still a great dream, though._

— ** _Mark:_** _What was it about?_

Gary moves his fingers into a reply, then stops. Should he be telling Mark this? The dream he had _was_ quite sexual, and they _are_ at work. There are probably some very serious rules about sexting your co-worker at work.

Then again, there are worse things Mark and Gary have done at work. Much. Worse.

— ** _Gary:_** _I’m warning you now, Marko, it was quite sexual …_

— ** _Mark:_** _Go on….._

Gary grins at his phone. He can imagine it now: Mark, stuck in a meeting somewhere, texting him in secret; a red flush spreading across his cheeks. Would Mark get hard if he told him about the dream? Would he excuse himself from his meeting and finish himself off in the nearest restroom?

Gary suddenly feels a lot less tired.

— ** _Gary:_** _I had a dream u were in me office – u were wearing the most outrageous outfit – and all of a sudden u went on your knees on the floor and took my prick inside your mouth …_

— ** _Gary:_** _I kept pulling and tugging your hair and I swear to God it was the best head you’ve ever given me …_

— ** _Mark:_** _I bet you get hard just thinking about it now….._

Gary flushes. He bites his lip. He looks up at the closed door of his office, then squeezes himself to alleviate the pulsing sensation he’s feeling between his legs.

— ** _Gary:_** _You’re right about that …_

— ** _Mark:_** _Why don’t you jerk yourself off right now?_

— ** _Gary:_** _What, in me office ?_

— ** _Mark:_** _Why not? You’ve done worse things in your office, haven’t you? You’ve done ME….._

Gary types a reply that he never sends, for he’s just stuck his hand inside the front of his trousers, his phone neglected on the pile of forms on his desk.

He feels a sudden itch that needs scratching. He’s no longer exhausted, and he’s certainly not dreaming. All of this is very, very real. Aroused by the words in Mark’s texts, Gary takes his cock out and jerks himself off in quick strokes up and down. As he closes his eyes, he fantasises about Mark’s fucking him with his mouth just as he did in the dream.

Gary knows that he’s inside his office and that he’d lose his job the _second_ someone walked in on him, but he does not care. He wants – needs – to come. All it takes is the perfect picture of his dick disappearing inside Mark’s pretty mouth – and his own fist replicating the feeling – and he comes quietly and quickly inside his own hand.

He daren’t shout out in case passing students hear him. He bites his lip. Cum ends up on his suit jacket. It was previously black and pristine – now, it bears all the evidence of what he’s just done to himself.

A little tired still, Gary has to take a couple of seconds to recollect himself. He laughs softly when he looks down and sees the state of his jacket. He’s made the most enormous mess. He’s also not entirely sure if the forms on his desk have been spared, worryingly enough.

Just as he’s about to tell Mark what he did, he feels a surge of inspiration. A series of lyrics come to him like an epiphany. He hasn’t had a burst of inspiration like it for _weeks_.

He looks around him. He spots a notepad on his desk. He opens it up and quickly scribbles down the lyrics that he just came up with. His words come so quickly that he can barely keep up.

The song he ends up writing is one of the filthiest he’s ever written. It’s so nasty that it’ll have to be heavily edited if Gary ever wants it to make it to an album.

Still. It’s a song; the first one Gary has written for ages.

Just eleven more to go.  
  


# |LESSON TWENTY-TWO: THE EXECUTIVE SECRETARY|

Once you’ve spent enough time with Gary, you can’t help but want a little of what he has. It’s only natural. When you’re a teacher, you’re constantly looking at other teachers and thinking, “I wish _I_ could have come up with an exercise like that” or “I wish _my_ students would get along with me.” Looking up to your colleagues plays a big part in becoming a decent teacher yourself.

The same is true when you’re a songwriter. This is why Mark decided to get in touch with Josh, Dave Dorypol’s executive secretary. He wants what Gary has going for him in the music industry.

Today, Mark is meeting Josh at a small Starbucks café in the city centre. Josh being Mr Dorypol’s secretary, he knows everything the head of the record label is doing and when. This means he could very well be the one person who can help Mark get back to the industry he so desperately misses.

Sure, he supposes he could also ask Gary for help. Gary is so powerful and well-connected that would be able to get him a record deal with a snap of his fingers. But does Mark _really_ want to put Gary under yet more pressure? Would it be a good idea, asking the help of someone who is easily the busiest person at school, perhaps in the entire world? No, he does not.

Mark arrives at Starbucks right on time. Unfortunately, Josh doesn’t seem to have arrived yet. To kill time, Mark gets himself a cup of tea and returns to his seat in front of the window. Ten minutes have passed. He hasn’t told Gary who he was meeting.

Is Josh stuck in traffic? Did something bad happen to him? Is he going to show up at all? Did he forget about their appointment? Did Mark get the time and date wrong, and is he actually supposed to meet Josh tomorrow?

Just in case, Mark’s about to double-check his appointment in his paper diary when the door next to him opens. His face lights up. It’s Josh!

Mark waves at Josh with both hands. Josh recognises Mark immediately.

‘Mark! I’m so sorry I’m late – I just _couldn’t_ get out of this meeting with Dave Dorypol.’

They shake hands. Josh sits. He takes off his coat and scarf; a very expensive scarf, by the looks of it. Being an executive secretary must earn quite a lot, because all of Josh’s clothes look amazing.

Josh spots the half-empty cup of tea in front of Mark. ‘I hope you weren’t waiting for me long.’

Mark smiles. He pulls his cup closer to him. ‘I – I don’t mind. I was just about to get some more tea, anyway. Would y-you like some? _I’ll_ pay, i-if you want. You know, to t-thank you for a-agreeing to meet with me.’

He doesn’t know why, but now that Josh is here, Mark’s nervous as fuck. It’s like he’s having a job interview; the sort of job interview that your entire life depends on but that you can’t prepare for.

As such, Mark does not mind when Josh asks him to get him a venti Signature Hot Chocolate with three shots of vanilla, which turns out to be easily the most expensive drink Mark has ever bought at Starbucks.

Still, Mark does not complain. He doesn’t even mind when he returns to their table with their drinks inside his hands and Josh suddenly announces that he has not eaten since six o’clock that morning, and if Mark could please get him a Five Cheese toastie. Mark pays for Josh’s food without complaining, because he does not want Josh to hate him. He wants Josh to like him very much indeed.

Now that they have their food, they can finally discuss why Josh is here. As per usual, it takes Mark three years to get to the point. In the meantime, more customers arrive; it must be nearly dinnertime.

‘So, first of all, I’m – I’m really glad you’re here, Josh. The reason I’ve asked you to meet me – well, you kind of said it yourself when we first met,’ Mark explains. ‘You said to me, “It sounds to me like you have unfinished business in the music industry”, and I’ve been thinking about that a lot ever since, and I sort of agree. I do have unfinished business in the music industry. I wouldn’t mind becoming a part of it again, you know.

‘So I was wondering if, you know, if you might help me get my name out there. You know, maybe – maybe you could share some of my demos with people you think might like them. You don’t _have_ to help, obviously, but – but it’d be nice if you could.’

Mark takes a big gulp of tea. Saying all of that took him so long that the sun has already gone down.

‘First of all, let’s discuss what you want us to achieve,’ Josh replies. He sounds professional. ‘Not including your teaching career, where do you want to be half a year from now?’

Mark hadn’t really thought of that. When you’re a teacher, you tend to live your life one term at a time. ‘I’d like to be able to write for other people again, I suppose. But I also wouldn’t mind if, you know, if maybe people listened to me for _me_. You know, if people listened to my songs and _my_ name is on them instead of my songs sort of being taken over by other people. And I’d like to teach still, of course.’

‘So you want to become a singer-songwriter? That’s the big dream?’

‘Singer-songwriter-teacher, yes,’ Mark clarifies. Like Gary, he isn’t willing to give up on his teaching career.

‘And putting your songs on Spotify yourself isn’t an option?’

Mark shakes his head. ‘I tried that, but it said I needed to work with a distributor or a record label, and, well, I don’t have either of those things. I’m also not really sure yet what direction I want to take my music in. It’s been so long since I wrote music professionally that I don’t really know who I am anymore. I mean, apart from being a teacher, anyway. But that’s not really something you can write songs about.’

‘So you need help finding your sound, then,’ Josh says.

Mark shrugs. ‘I suppose so.’

‘What I suggest is this,’ says Josh. Mark sits a little straighter, for Josh sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. ‘You send me a couple of your demos and I pass them on to some people in the business – you know, producers and record label execs and so on – and ask them if they’d be interested in signing you. If the answer is yes, then we move on to the next question, or your sound. What kind of music would those producers expect you to release? Would you be better off releasing sad ballads or dance music, that sort of thing.’

Mark chuckles. ‘Oh, I don’t think I’d be very good at dance music, Josh.’

Josh takes a sip of hot chocolate. There’s a look in his eyes as if he’s plotting something. ‘Let’s see what the professionals think, shall we?’

There’s an odd tone to Josh’s voice as he says that, but Mark doesn’t really notice, for he’s too busy having a celebratory party inside his head. Josh has just offered to pass on his demos to people in the music industry! He feels closer to becoming a singer-songwriter-teacher already. This is going a lot better than he thought.

‘If you do this for me, then what do I owe you?’ asks Mark, who came into this meeting fully prepared to pay for Josh’s services.

‘Nothing,’ Josh says, smiling. ‘Sending people e-mails doesn’t really cost me anything. I’m more than willing to help you out for free. I suppose if you do make it big one day, I can say I’m the one who discovered you, and people will flock to my office to ask for help.’

Mark can’t believe his ears. ‘Wow. Thank you, Josh. Are you _sure_ you don’t want anything in return?’

Josh pretends to think it over. His gaze lands on the empty cup in front of him, which he finished in a couple of minutes. ‘Well, I wasn’t going to ask you this, Mark, but I don’t suppose you could get me another hot chocolate? I left my wallet at the office, you see. I’m ever so clumsy.’

Mark gets out his wallet without hesitation. Always willing to help, he doesn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that Josh keeps asking him to do little errands for him.

He also does not seem to remember that Josh once called Gary “selfish”, saying that Gary “cares only about himself”. Josh isn’t that wonderful or helpful a person really, but when you’re being offered help by someone who’s this close to the head of a famous record label, it’s easy to overlook the little red flags.

Then again, Mark is also the type of teacher who’ll allow his students to head home early when they so much smile at him.

‘Another hot chocolate, Josh?’

‘Oh, you’re a _star_ ,’ Josh responds, which makes Mark tremble and flush and nearly fall over on his way to the “order” counter.

Mark’s never been called a star before. Not by anyone. Until the awful “getting suspended for exam fraud” incident, which threw him into the centre of attention in all the worst ways, he’s always been fairly anonymous. His songs never performed that well. Even at work, there are still students who don’t know his name. Josh passing on his demos to people in the music industry could very well be Mark’s first step to achieving _more._

Because Mark’s proud of his job at VCMA, he really is, but when you’re constantly surrounded by pop stars like Gary and Mrs Kennedy-Cairns, who can blame him for wanting to reach the stars? He doesn’t need fame or money or all that, but it’d be nice to have someone other than Gaz telling him, “You’ve done a good job.”

The thing is, Mark is actually an amazing songwriter. He actually aced his teacher training. His students like him. The last time he had a class management issue was several weeks ago. In other words, Mark is actually quite good at what he does. He doesn’t _really_ need someone like Josh or a faceless record label executive to tell him he’s done a good job – he just needs to believe in himself, and the rest will follow.

So why is he still paying for Josh’s hot chocolate? Is it because he’s naïve? Is it because he’s being too kind? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Mark is too excited about his meeting with Josh to realise that the music industry has always been traditionally unkind to kind people like him.

***

After Josh finally finishes his second cup of hot chocolate, he and Mark arrange to meet up again in two weeks’ time. Josh will pass on Mark’s demos as promised, and in the meantime he will keep Mark updated via e-mail. Hopefully, asking Josh for help will lead to Mark getting more offers from the music industry.

Meanwhile, Gary is still stuck in his office at school. He’s finally gotten through all his forms, but he keeps kept thinking about what Mrs Kennedy-Cairns spoke to him about in his office that morning, about the event he’s been tasked to organise.

His eyes land on a pink binder on his desk. It’s full of ideas for the so-called “event” the school wants to organise for the Music department next year. The idea, of course, is to organise a public event that is so good and prolific that it will make the Music department popular again.

Gary hasn’t really had a look at the binder since Lulu gave it to him a couple of weeks ago. Nor does he have any ideas of his own. Gary very recently organised the annual school prom, but Lulu’s event is something else. His brain is empty.

Curious, Gary picks up the pink binder and opens it. He leafs through its contents.

Unfortunately, all the proposals are shit. They’re not even worth reading. The only proposal that Gary supposes is a _little_ promising is the one featuring a music festival on the school grounds, but it’d probably be too expensive. 

Discouraged, Gary closes the pink binder and puts it on the pile of forms on his desk. Why does he feel like this event is never going to happen?  
  


# |LESSON TWENTY-THREE: DEAR JOURNAL|

It’s Monday evening; the evening after Mark’s visit to Starbucks. After a rather pleasant liaison with Gary, which involved much kissing and hands squeezing certain body parts, Mark sits down in the living room upstairs to write in his journal.

This is what he writes:

  
_Dear Journal,_

_Today was a good day. Me and Gaz arrived home at almost the same time, at about seven in the evening. After we’d had tea and done the dishes, we talked about what Gary had done in his office this morning. Blushing, he admitted that he’d touched himself to the texts I’d sent him. Just thinking about it now makes me hard, because it’s such a terribly dangerous and sexy thing to do._

_As Gary told me about what he’d done to himself and how, I felt myself becoming more and more turned out. I wanted more. I wanted him. I took a deep breath, waited (I wanted to get the words out in the right order), then asked Gaz if he could show me what he’d done. A risky question, I know. But I asked it anyway. _

_Gary said yes. He took me by the hand to the bedroom and sat me down in a comfy chair and touched himself while I watched. As I watched, I could see every stroke and touch Gaz put himself through._

_His face looked perfect, of course. He had an expression on his face that I recognised from every time we make love: eyes shut, his mouth sort of half-open. He was pumping his fist up and down his prick slowly, but I know Gary likes it quick really. I could tell he was trying to make himself last longer._

_I don’t know why, but it felt really intimate and also sort of special to have Gary showing me that side of him. It’s like Gary was telling me, “This is what I do when I’m alone and I’m thinking of you.”_

_Eventually, I decided I wanted more still. I crawled on all fours on the bed as bravely as I dared and finished Gary off with my mouth. I could tell he loved it; he was moving and moaning in front of me, grabbing and tugging my hair as I went._

_I love having that effect on Gaz, you know. It feels good, knowing that you’re about to make someone come and that you’re the only one who’s allowed to do it. I don’t think I can ever tire of watching Gary arch his back and feeling him come inside my throat. I loved it. I always do. The dirtier I get, the more I love it – and the harder I come myself. All it took was Gary shoving his hand inside the front of my trousers and I came messily inside his fist. We’d made a pretty big mess of ourselves, but it was good. It always is, when Gary’s touching you._

_I can’t really remember what we did afterwards apart from the fact that an hour or so later, we made love again. Except instead of me fucking Gary with my mouth, Gary did all the fucking. He pinned me down on the floor while we were watching telly and fucked me so hard that I still feel sore now. _

_Also . . . I know I say “I love him” or “I loved it” when I talk about Gary a lot, but I really did love it. I love it when Gary’s fucking me really hard and he slows down and I can feel him pulsing inside. I love it when he looks at me and says, “I love you”. I love it when Gary kisses my neck while I come. I love it when he’s fucking me with only his fingers and it’s still the best thing I’ve ever felt. I can’t get enough of moments like that. I think those rough moments mixed with sweetness (like Gary saying he loves me) are my favourite moments by far, because it means I never really know what’s coming. The only thing I know for sure is that Gary always cuddles me afterwards._

_When we were done, we sort of talked about how our day had been. Gary didn’t ask me whom I’d met at Starbucks, and I was glad. I don’t want him to find out yet that I want to go back to the music industry. Gary would only set up his own record label for me if I knew I wanted to release music again._

_Our conversation quickly turned to work. (Not romantic, I know, but I like talking about work, and so does Gaz.) Gary told me about the event Mrs Kennedy-Cairns OBE wants him to organise. I’ve got a few ideas of my own, but . . . well, they’re probably not good enough. And I wouldn’t know how to organise a big event anyway. I wouldn’t even know how to organise my own birthday party._

_After we’d finished talking about the big event, Gary told me about the column Ms Lloyd from The Maily Dail had written. We both agreed that the column maybe wasn’t as positive as it should have been. Why take all this trouble to meet Gary at school and then still write something halfway between negative and positive? I don’t get it. Gary seemed a little less bothered by the column when we talked about it, but then again I suppose he’s more used to things like headlines and showbiz journalists and paparazzi._

_When Gary first became famous and he had difficult first-year Songwriting group, journalists wrote about how “bad” his lessons were all the time. It must have been pretty awful, but then again Gary doesn’t talk about his first few years in education much. People always say that the first three years of being a teacher are the most difficult and that most NQTs drop out after their first or second school year. I’m glad Gary didn’t quit after his first teaching job, and I’m happy I never did either, because I really like teaching._

_So why did I meet Josh today? Because I want “more” from life, I guess. Because I miss the life I had before I became a teacher. Because I’ve written a brand new song every day since getting this red leather journal from my friends. Because I want someone to tell me, “You’ve done a good job.” “Your work is something to be proud of.”_

_One day, I want to release a song that Gary will listen to and think, “Wow”. That’s all I’ve ever wanted; for someone to go “wow” at something I do._

_I guess another reason why I met Josh today is because of everything that happened last term. I want to feel safe and secure and cosy so that one day I can propose to Gary knowing that I’ll never lose anything I hold dear ever again._

_You’ve read that right: I want to get married._

_Yes, I’m aware that Gary’s never mentioned marriage to me. Yes, I know I’ve never even mentioned marriage myself – just in my dreams. I don’t even know if Gary is the marrying kind really. I guess him being a pop star makes things a lot more difficult. I don’t know how the press will react when they find out that Gary is dating a teacher like me. But if I had to choose between returning to my songwriting job and getting married, I think I’d choose marriage for sure._

_Still – when I finish writing this, the first thing I’ll do is send Josh my demos and hope for the best. Why have just one dream when I can have two?_

Mark looks up from his journal, puts it away and takes his laptop from the living room table while Gary is otherwise occupied in his office. He looks at his list of song demos on his screen.

The idea was that Josh would pass on Mark’s demos to important people in the music industry, so obviously he has to pick the best songs he has. He selects four tracks that he thinks epitomise the “Mark Owen sound” best, puts them in a brand new folder and finally attaches the entire folder to an e-mail that still has the text and addresses missing.

He takes a deep breath, inserts Josh’s e-mail address, adds a subject title, then hits “send”.  
  


# |LESSON TWENTY-FOUR: TRUE COLOURS|

Two weeks later.

Rob once told Mark that visiting new places gives him anxiety. It’s why he never goes on any dates with Jay outside of the comforts his own home and why he refuses to go on teambuilding trips with his colleagues. If he could, Rob would divide his entire life between school and his flat: two places that he knows intimately, and where he’ll never ever feel anxious.

Mark never really understood what Rob meant until he arrived at the five-star Wytheforth Hotel in the city centre, two weeks after we last saw him. He’s meeting Josh from Dorypol again today. Josh must have had something pretty important to tell him, because the last time they met, it was over a cup of coffee at Starbucks. Mark feels like he’s moving up in life already.

On the outside, the hotel looks pretty old, maybe 18th of 19th century. It's a sort of sandstone colour. It has only two floors. On ground floor level, the hotel has round-headed arches where people are sheltering from the rain. A glass foyer connects the sandstone building with a more recent extension that towers into the sky. There’s an exhibition centre and a train station nearby.

Slowly, Mark enters. He feels another jolt of anxiety when he enters the hotel and finds himself in a shiny reception area. There are hints of gold and silver everywhere. The statue of a horse is looking at him from a balustrade. He sees expensively-dressed hotel staff rushing past him. The smell of rich incense fills the air.

Mark stands in the reception area as though frozen. The last time he was at a five-star hotel, it was in Amsterdam and Gary was there with him. Gary seemed perfectly at ease at the hotel, but Mark rather felt like he was intruding.

Mark can’t help but wish that he’d told Gaz where he was going. Instead, he told Gary that he was meeting a friend in the city centre. He supposes it’s technically not a lie, but it’s not entirely the truth either. Josh is the only person in the world who knows that Mark wants to get back into the music industry. No-one else knows, not even Gary.

In hindsight, he’s not sure whether this is the sort of thing you keep secret.

Still. He’s here now, so he might as well go through with the meeting.

Josh mentioned that he’d be in waiting for him at the hotel restaurant at three p.m, so this is where Mark heads. The restaurant is massive, and very golden.

He quickly spots Josh at a round table in the corner of the restaurant. He’s sat next to a window that overlooks a busy street. Mark goes up to greet him.

‘Hi, Josh. And, _er_ . . .’

Mark suddenly notices that Josh is not alone. He’s been joined by two men in their forties. Mark’s never seen them before, and it’s making him feel anxious and nervous all over again.

Josh introduces the two men to his left. ‘Mark. I don’t think you have met. These my associates, Christopher and Keith, two A&R reps from Hopper Records. They’re the people I sent your demos to.’

Mark’s heart skips a beat. Everyone knows about Hopper Records. It’s hugely successful, with offices and successful artists all over the world. It’s also the only record label in the country that can compete with Dorypol. This is huge!

Mark shakes hands with the newcomers. He sheepishly sinks into a red velvet chair after a full minute of staring-at-Christopher-and-Keith. He can’t believe this is happening. This is the best day ever. ‘I can’t believe you’ve brought two people from Hopper Records, Josh,’ he says, in awe of the two men. ‘Aren’t they Dorypol’s direct competitor? I’m surprised you’re allowed to work with them.’ Mark has read a lot of newspaper articles about the two record labels constantly fighting for the number one spot on the charts.

Josh smiles. Mark melts a little. He can’t help it; Josh is just so _impressive._ ‘Just because I work for one record label doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to help out another, Mark. It’s better to have fingers in every pie in this industry. I’m glad you made it, by the way. Then again, I suppose your work isn’t that far from here.’

‘You work in education, don’t you?’ Keith, the A&R rep, says. He is bald and has a nose as though he broke it while boxing. ‘I bet you see some juicy shit working with teenagers every day.’

‘I – I do.’ Mark feels less nervous already. He always feels better when people ask him about teaching. ‘Just a couple of days ago, a student sawed a hammer in half. It was really funny. Awful, also, obviously, because it’s not nice when students break our stuff, but it was funny also.’

Judging by Keith’s face, a student sawing a hammer in half wasn’t really what he wanted Mark to talk about. ‘So you never get any _really_ weird shit happening, then? You know, students fighting each other and so on? Students becoming a part of criminal gangs? That sort of stuff?’

‘You know – things you can actually write songs about,’ Christopher adds.

Mark shrugs. ‘Not really. Our school is pretty boring. I mean, apart from what happened to Mr Harrison. That wasn’t so boring. But it’s not something I’d ever write a song about.’

Keith shares a cautious glance with Christopher. He has made a note about Mark’s comment in a blue Filofax notebook, which is never a good sign. Did he say something wrong?

‘ _Um._ Christopher, Sir, why are you making notes?’ Mark asks. He feels anxious all over again.

‘Oh, _you_ know. Just trying to get an idea of what kind of artist you are,’ Christopher responds.

‘We like to get to know artists’ characters,’ Keith explains.

Mark stares back at Keith and Christopher not understanding.

Josh smiles and puts his hand on Mark’s shoulder. ‘I bet you’re hungry after your journey, Mark. I ordered some food while you were absent, if that’s all right. Speaking of the devil, here is the waitress now. How brilliant.’

A waitress arrives with four massive tasting plates. The plates are filled with a plethora of bite-sized food that Mark’s never seen before.

The waitress puts the plates on the round table and hands the men their cutlery. Mark says “thank you” very politely, but his companions have gone quiet. They’re so busy sticking their forks in the food that they don’t even bother looking at the waitress as she leaves.

Meanwhile, Mark stares at the tasting plate in front of him sceptically. A collection of bite-sized dishes creatively presented on a plate the size of a textbook, it all looks very meaty and slimy. It doesn’t look like something he’d enjoy eating at all.

‘Are you not going to eat, Mark?’ Keith asks. He shoves a small piece of meat the size of a Ping-Pong ball into his mouth.

‘This restaurant does the most brilliant tasting menus,’ Christopher adds.

Mark shakes his head. A feeling of discomfort curls up into a ball in his tummy. ‘I don’t really like eating meat.’

‘That’s a shame,’ says Keith, and he continues eating.

Mark’s too polite to ask Josh if he could please have a tasting plate that doesn’t include any meat, so he pushes the plate away from him. He can’t help but feel a little uncomfortable, sitting here watching other people eat while he’s having nothing. Not to mention the fact that Christopher and Keith don’t look like pleasant people at all. Is this what Rob feels like when he’s suffering from anxiety?

Maybe. Maybe he’s just being ridiculous. He’s only just met these guys, after all. He needs to give it time.

Mark waits until the men have half-finished their tasting plates until he dares talking again. They did come here to discuss his music, after all.

‘So, _er_ , Josh just said that he sent you my demos,’ Mark says. His throat feels as though he’s got a frog stuck inside of it. He feels anxious and nervous and a little curious at the same time, which is making speaking rather difficult. ‘I, _er_ , hope y-you liked them?’

‘We did,’ says Keith, the A&R rep with the boxer’s nose. Christopher nods. Mark feels a little flicker of hope. ‘They’re good songs, Mark. Well-written, emotive, gentle – and surprisingly introspective.’

‘Good melodies, too,’ adds Christopher. ‘It’s been a while since we’ve heard melodies like that, hasn’t it, Keith?’

‘ _Ages_ ,’ Keith agrees. And he jabs his fork into a piece of meat on the plate in front of him.

Mark starts beaming. ‘Wow. I – I can’t . . . wow. _Thank_ you. I wasn’t expecting that at all, you know. I’m really relieved you like them.’

‘We do,’ says Christopher.

‘However,’ adds Keith, pausing before he speaks again, ‘your songs are a bit . . . how do I say this . . .’

‘Uncommercial,’ says Christopher. He finishes the last piece of meat on his tasting plate.

‘Right. Uncommercial,’ Keith reiterates. ‘Your songs are good, Mark, but, well, how do I say this? We can’t really see anyone wanting to listen to your songs as they are _now_. These days, songs need to be _interesting_. They need to intrigue listeners from the word “go”. As it stands now, your songs are a bit, well . . .’

‘Boring,’ says Christopher.

Mark feels a pang in his chest. His face falls. There it is again, that feeling of anxiety curling up like a ball in his tummy. He looks at Josh for help, but Josh seems to be on Christopher’s side, not his.

‘I know what Chris and Keith are saying sounds a bit harsh, but hear them out, all right?’ Josh says. He smiles at Mark, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘They’re only here to help. It’s what they _do_. They turn promising songs into amazing ones. Why do you think we’re here, having food at a restaurant at a five-star restaurant? It’s because Christopher and Keith are the best in the business. There’s a reason they’ve worked at Hopper Records for years.

‘Forget Dorypol,’ Josh adds, neglecting his own record label, ‘Hopper are the people you need to work with. They’re the ones who can make you _better_.’

Mark doesn’t know what to say. His mind is empty. Numb. _Boring_.

‘As Josh said – we think your songs are promising,’ Keith goes on, ‘but we do question whether they’re right for today’s audiences. Have you been paying attention to the charts lately? The only songs that chart are songs released by the big young artists – artists who have a teenage fanbase; fans who change favourite bands every two weeks. If you want those people to listen to you, you need to write easily digestible songs.’

Christopher nods. ‘If a song on Spotify doesn’t grab your audience within ten or fifteen seconds, you’re not earning any money. You need to _stand out_. You need to get people to keep listening to it.’

Keith nods. ‘It’s why we asked you if anything _interesting_ ever happens at school. It helps when artists’ personal lives are interesting.’

‘Unfortunately, we can’t change your day job,’ Christopher adds. Mark’s barely aware of what he’s saying; he’s still thinking about what Christ and Keith told him earlier.

 _Boring. Uncommercial._ _Boring._

‘We can, however, change your music,’ Keith goes on. He does not seem to notice that Mark is trembling. ‘Christopher, your laptop?’

Christopher reaches into the messenger bag underneath his chair. He gets out an expensive Apple laptop and flips it open. He presses a couple of keys and plugs in a pair of white earphones. He hands Mark one of the buds. ‘Listen to this.’

Mark can’t stop his body from trembling. Christopher is only handing him an earbud, but to Mark, he might as well be handing him a bottle of deadly poison. ‘D-do I have to?’

‘If you know what’s good for you, yes,’ says Josh. He sounds less silky-smooth than Mark remembers Josh being.

‘Guys, I – I don’t . . .’

‘ _Oh_ , just give it a chance to it, will you?’ Josh snaps. He crosses his arms. He looks impatient.

Not wanting to be rude, Mark reluctantly puts the bud into his left ear. Music is playing.

Hearing the music only makes Mark feel worse. He can clearly make out his own voice singing a song that he sent Josh two weeks ago, but none of the melodies and instruments make sense. It sounds like a deconstructed version of his song, with all the verses in the wrong places. It’s as if someone put the song on fast-forward and threw a million different sound effects at it.

He _hates_ it.

Mark removes the bud from his ear. Christopher and Keith look at him expectantly. They must have taken the courtesy of remixing one of his songs, expecting Mark to love it. Mark can’t think of a song he’s ever loved less.

‘What do you think?’ Chris asks.

‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ says Keith.

Mark smiles uncertainly. He glances at Josh, who has crossed his arms over his chest.

Meanwhile, the knot in Mark’s tummy is getting tighter. Is this a joke? The song he just heard didn’t sound like him _at all_. It sounded like an alien from the future had covered his song and recorded it in a microwave.

‘ _Er_. Mr Keith, Mr Christopher – this song – it doesn’t really, you know, _sound_ like me. I mean, it does _sound_ like me, obviously, because I’m the one singing it, I suppose, but the production . . .’

‘The production is just what audiences want these days,’ Josh cuts in. He sounds angry. Irritated. ‘The reason you reached out to me was because you want to become an artist. You want people to listen to you for _you_. Your demoes aren’t good enough for that. You need to sound current. Christopher and Keith can help you with that. _Hopper_ can help you with that,’ the secretary adds, forgetting – once again – that he works for Dorypol.

‘But, Josh . . . I – I don’t _like_ it.’

‘You _should_ ,’ Josh retorts loudly.

The restaurant goes quiet. A waitress stops in her tracks. Everyone in the restaurant turns to look at them. Mark shivers involuntarily. He unconsciously leans back from the table, afraid. Meanwhile, Christopher and Keith share a glance. The buzz of conversation in the restaurant resumes as normal.

Josh squeezes the bridge of his nose. He takes a deep breath. ‘Mark, may I speak to you privately for a second?’

Mark reluctantly follows Josh into a long hallway. Mark thought Josh looked rather handsome when they first met, but now, he just looks scary.

‘Mark. You do _realise_ how difficult it was to ask Christopher and Keith to come and meet you?’ Josh is staring at Mark with his arms folded. ‘These guys want to _help_ you. They’re here for you. You ought to be grateful that they even bothered _listening_ to you.’

‘I know, but . . .’

‘But _what_?’ Josh snaps, making Mark start. He points an accusatory finger at him. ‘It took me ages to find someone to like the crap demoes you sent me, Mark. I had to take a day off work to meet you here, and what do I get in return? Nothing. All I’ve gotten is your stupid _moaning_. No wonder you never fucking made any money making music.’

Mark gasps. 

Noticing Mark’s reaction, Josh takes another deep breath to compose himself. He is smiling, but Mark can tell it isn’t real. None of this is. He bets the golden cutlery in the restaurant isn’t even made of gold; and that the five stars above the hotel entrance are all fake.

‘Look – I’m sorry, okay?’ Josh says. Mark reminds him of a chameleon changing its colours. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. It’s been a long day. You probably know what that’s like, right, Mark? Why don’t we go back in there and see what Christopher and Keith have to say? Remember – they’re only there to help you. They just want what’s best for you.’

Mark stares at Josh not knowing what to do. He thinks about his songs, changed beyond recognition on someone else’s laptop. He thinks about his boyfriend, who doesn’t seem to be able to say “no”, and who is now drowning in work because of it.

‘No, Josh.’

Josh laughs uncertainly. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘I said no,’ Mark says. His eyes are stinging. ‘I’m not going back to the restaurant if it means having my songs changed. I’d rather just be me. You know, write and record my songs the way _I_ intended them. Songs for _me_.’

‘But that means you’ll never be successful,’ Josh says. ‘You’ll never get an opportunity like this again. You’ll forever be stuck working in a boring teaching job. The most interesting thing that happened to you all month was a student sawing a hammer in half!’

Mark rubs his nose. His eyes have gone all blurry, but he still lifts up his chin. If becoming a singer-songwriter-teacher involves changing who he is and working with a snappy guy like Josh, then he’d rather not become a singer-songwriter-teacher at all. Ever. ‘ _You_ may not think I’m that interesting, but I don’t c-care. At least b-being a teacher means I’ll never have to work with people l-like _you_. Goodbye, Josh. Enjoy t-the rest of your day.’

Mark turns away from Josh right before the floodgates open. He leaves the hotel in tears.

He’s overwhelmed by sudden emotion. He wants to get as far away from the hotel as he can. He keeps going, not bothering to look where he is going. Cars honk at him when he crosses the street without looking.

Mark keeps walking until a painful pitch in his side forces him to catch his breath. He’s managed to stop in front of a concrete bench on a square. He sits on it, hard. His ears are ringing. It’s raining. He’s panting. He tries to breathe in and out through his nose, but breathing is rather difficult when you’re sad. He touches his cheeks; they’re wet from crying. He rubs away the tears when a woman walks past him carrying shopping bags.

Eventually, his ears stop ringing. He becomes slowly aware of a cacophony of sound: laughter, cars, buses, trams. He doesn’t know how, but he’s made it to the city centre. He sees a department store behind him. Its display is covered in neon lights. People walk in and out of a shopping centre on his right: dozens of people carrying umbrellas, all doing their last-minute shopping.

There’s a loud _honk_ , and the sound of a yellow tram moving past. The bench he’s sitting on is made of concrete, and it is as wet as his hair, sticking to his face in thick clumps. In front of him, the sky is turning red; sunset.

His brain conjures up the painful memory of his song behind changed beyond recognition, and he bursts out in tears once more. He hides his face inside his hands, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

He knows that what he did was right and that he would never want to work with someone like Josh and Keith and Christopher, but what they told him still hurt.

It hurt, because it was true. His music is raw and complicated and terribly sad coming from someone like Mark, who is always smiling, and therefore a career in music will always elude him.

Deep down, Mark knew this. He _knew_ that meeting Josh was always going to be fruitless. Some dreams are so impossible and farfetched that they cannot ever be. He’s known this from day one. There’s a reason why he became a teacher – and why he ended up loving it so much. He loves it because he is amazing at it.

So why is his meeting with Josh hitting him so hard? Why is he sat here, crying his heart out, mourning the loss of a career that he already lost two years ago?

He doesn’t know. He knows nothing. He just keeps on crying, and he cannot get it to stop. The tears keep coming as the rain falls down on him.

He feels terrible. He can’t even get himself to text Gary, he feels so lost. He keeps hearing Josh’s words over and over like a broken record, as loud as if someone were speaking them right to his ear.

_Boring. Unprofessional. Crap._

Just one sound manages to cut through the noise inside Mark’s head. No – not just a sound; a voice. A voice that he hears every single day.

‘Mark? What’s going on?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on, I will probably find it quite hard to update this story as frequently as I would like. I am starting a new job, and I will have nowhere near as much free time as I used to. As a result, I may not be able to post Chapter 7 until a couple of weeks from now. Still – rest assured that the next chapter will be very, very smutty.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Directly continued from the previous chapter, Mark finally tells Gary that he wants to go back into music. Later, they go on their first-ever holiday abroad and have lots of sex. Mark may or may not come up with a brilliant idea that will influence the rest of the story.

# |LESSON TWENTY-FIVE: TELLING GARY|

‘Mark? What’s going on?’

Mark lifts his head slowly. Relief floods through him when he sees who’s standing right in front of him. He’s been sat on this concrete bench in the middle of the city for the past ten minutes, sobbing his heart out after a disastrous meeting with Josh from Dorypol. Everyone has walked past him not caring.

Everyone but Gary Barlow, who is staring back at him carrying two shopping bags in each hand. His hair looks windswept and messy, but to Mark, he might as well be an angel. His saviour. His _partner_.

Gary quickly cancels his shopping trip and takes Mark back home, where he listens to his boyfriend telling him what happened in a long monologue that takes him about fifteen minutes because he keeps crying.

Mark concludes his story by saying, ‘. . . then I ran out of the hotel and met you at the shopping centre, and now I’m here.’

A moment of silence in the living room precedes Gary’s response. ‘Why did you never tell me that you wanted to work in the music industry again?’

‘Because I was scared, I suppose.’ Mark absent-mindedly runs his fingers across the armrests of the sofa, looking for the right words but not quite finding them. ‘Because I didn’t want you to lose focus on your own songwriting career by helping _me_.’

This is followed by another moment of silence, in which Mark can almost see his boyfriend assessing and deliberating how to respond. Gary’s been a professional singer-songwriter for so long that, sadly, stories like Mark’s no longer surprise him. There are manipulative men like Josh everywhere you go. What can Gary possibly say to Mark, who has just been told by two so-called professionals that his music is terrible?

Mark waits for Gary’s reply in silence, but the reply takes so long to arrive that it fills Mark with anxiety. ‘You’re not angry I didn’t tell you, are you?’

‘Of course not. _Never_.’ Gary pulls Mark in a tight embrace on their living room sofa. ‘I’m so sorry this happened to you, Mark, I really am.’

Mark relaxes visibly. The tensions of the stressful day leave his body one kiss at a time. Gary feels equally relaxed; he didn’t have the best time today either, so it’s nice to have someone soft like Mark Owen to wrap your arms around in your living room.

‘To be honest, you’re not the only one who’s been keeping secrets,’ Gary says. ‘I still haven’t figured out what to do with the event Lou wants me to organise, and I haven’t written a decent song for ages. I feel bloody stuck, I do.’

Mark looks up. He searches Gary’s eyes for proof that he is joking, but Gary’s serious. He can tell; Gary’s eyebrows have dropped so low down his face that it’s like they’re trying to climb down his nose. ‘Your album is still not finished, Gaz?’

‘Worse. I still haven’t even _started_. The only song I’ve written is one the record label will probably never approve of.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know.’

‘It is what it is,’ Gary shrugs. He stares out of the living room window for a second, lost in thought. ‘I guess me inspiration was bound to dry up eventually.’

‘Are you suffering from writer’s block, then?’ asks Mark, who knows a thing or two about writer’s block.

‘I’ve got writer’s block like you wouldn’t believe. I used to be able to churn out three songs in under an hour. I wrote _Back For Good_ in under fifteen minutes. But now, I can’t even come up with _one_ decent lyric. There’s just nothing coming out. I think the only song I’ve written all month was a song about _you_ , but there’s no way the label will ever allow me to put it on the record. And then there’s the event Lou wants me to organise. I still haven’t got a clue what to do.’

Mark makes a sympathetic face. ‘I get jealous of you sometimes, you know, for being so successful and having everything under control, but I guess we’re both struggling with music in our own ways. You’re under a lot of pressure, aren’t you?’

‘You can say that again, Mark. I’ve only got a couple more weeks to finish this record. If I don’t . . .’ Gary gives a small shake of his head, willing his fear of being dropped to go away. ‘I guess I just need to hope that one day inspiration will strike and I’ll finish me entire record in a week.’

‘And if you don’t?’

‘Then I’ll just have to ask someone else to do it for me,’ Gary sighs. ‘What will _you_ do now, though? Do you still want to become a singer-songwriter-teacher after everything those guys from the record label put you through? Your songs are some of the best ones I’ve ever heard. I don’t know _what_ those guys they were doing, criticising you like that.’

Mark smiles weakly. ‘You only say that because you love me.’

‘I say it because it’s true.’ Gary’s warm lips find Mark’s forehead. ‘You’re the best songwriter I know.’

‘Not according to Christopher and Keith, the A&R guys from Hopper records.’ Mark sighs.

‘They need to get their hearing checked,’ Gary says defensively. ‘I must say, though, I’m surprised to hear Josh is working with them – Dorypol employees technically aren’t allowed to do business with employees from Hopper records.’

Mark nods. ‘They’re competitors, aren’t they, Dorypol and Hopper?’

‘They’re the two biggest record labels the country has. They’re always fighting it out for the number one spot on the charts. If Dave Dorypol finds out one of his employees is working for Hopper, he won’t be happy. Still – I wouldn’t trust people from Hopper to know what they’re talking about. Did you play them _Stars_? I love that one.’

‘That’s the one they remixed! It sounded like something they’d play in a _club_. It was awful.’ Mark shivers involuntarily. ‘I suppose it’s better this way, though. At least I’ve learned that if I ever do want to return to the music industry, I should do it on my own terms. Alone. I don’t want a major record label to decide for me what kind of music I should release. And I don’t want _you_ to help me either.’ Mark smiles.

‘It’s probably for the better that, to be honest,’ says Gary. ‘People might think we’re sleeping together!’

Mark giggles.

‘Can I just say, Mark, I’m really glad you told me, about wanting to get back into the music industry,’ Gary goes on. ‘It’s a very personal thing, music is. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you wanted to keep your dream a secret. Still, I’m glad you shared it in the end. I’m sorry that you had to go through all of that crap.’

Mark smiles sadly. ‘I know. It wasn’t very nice, looking back. I could do with a break, to be honest. I feel like I’ve spent all day crying and feeling terrible!’ 

‘A break, Mark?’

‘You know, a holiday. I could do with being away from work and nasty people like Josh for a while.’

‘Mark. That. Is. _Brilliant._ ’ Gary’s eyes have gone as large as moons. ‘If we go on holiday together, I’ll get rid of me writer’s block! Brilliant!’

‘I was just joking!’ Mark points out.

‘I’m not! I’m serious, Mark – I think we should go on holiday together. Soon.’ Gary says it as though it’s the most normal thing in the world.

To Mark, though, who has only ever been to Amsterdam, booking a weekend trip sounds impossible. Gary might as well have told him that pigs can fly; and that aliens exist.

‘Gaz. We can’t just book a weekend trip to the other side of the world – we’d have to go to work the morning after!’

‘Ms Brooke does it all the time.’ Gary shrugs. ‘She booked a weekend trip to see Ronan Keating in Dublin the other day. I think she managed to see most of the city, as well. She went through Dublin Zoo in less than an hour.’

Mark gives Gary a stern look. Sometimes Gary forgets that not all people are as rich and as privileged as he is, and that Mark still has a normal job teaching Creative Writing that he can’t afford to lose for the sake of last-minute weekend trips. ‘Just because Ms Brooke does something doesn’t mean _we_ should. I need my weekends to prepare for my lessons!’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘You don’t, though. You teach Creative Writing. You don’t have to prepare your lessons three weeks in advance. Just tell your student to write a sonnet in Google Classroom or something. And, anyway, a weekend trip doesn’t _have_ to be on the other side of the world – we can go to the beach too, if you want.’

‘The nearest beach is forty miles away!’

‘So? That’s what cars and trains were invented for.’

Mark blushes. He crosses his arms. ‘I still don’t see the point of going on holiday in the middle of term. What if our car or train breaks down and we can’t ever get back and we miss all our Monday lessons? What if it starts snowing and we can’t leave the hotel?’

‘Ms Brooke had that once. No-one cared.’

‘ _I_ care.’ Mark shakes his head. ‘I’m serious, Gaz. I don’t have _time_ for last-minute weekend trips. What would we even be doing on a beach, anyway?’

‘There’s loads of things you can do on a beach, like sunbathing and surfing and that sort of stuff. I’m personally more interested in fucking you all day, though.’ Gary says it without blinking.

Mark turns even redder. ‘On the _beach!?_ ’ he splutters.

‘Why not? I love making love on the beach, me . . . blue skies, sand getting everywhere . . . hearing the waves crashing against the beach . . .’

Gary’s lips cover Mark’s in a warm kiss. It’s intended as a short, searching kiss, but it doesn’t stay that way; Mark instinctively lifts up his chin to kiss his boyfriend deeper, and they exchange a snog on the sofa that _almost_ makes Mark forget how silly the idea of going on holiday is.

Almost.

‘And if someone saw us?’ Mark looks up at Gary drowsily, the memory of the kiss still hot on his mouth. His reluctance to go on holiday is fading quickly. ‘What if someone recognised you? When we went to Amsterdam, people wanted to talk to you all the time. One woman asked you for your autograph! Wouldn’t it bother you if you had people staring at you all the time?’

‘Not really. In fact . . .’ Gary gives Mark another warm kiss that has no reason to quicken Mark’s pulse, but it does. It always does; Gary’s the best kisser Mark has ever known. ‘I’d probably fuck you harder if I knew people were watching.’

‘Y-you would?’ Mark sounds breathless. He can’t remember what they were talking about. Holidays? Josh and Christopher and Keith? The music industry? Wasn’t he supposed to be sad?

Frankly, the only thing on Mark’s mind is the prospect of making love on a beach, which he has never done. There are a lot of things he’s never done before, like going on holiday or being fucked while people are watching. He finds the idea wickedly arousing. ‘A-and if the place we go to doesn’t h-have a beach, Gaz?’

Gary grins. He knew Mark would get round to the idea of going on holiday with him eventually. ‘Does that mean the idea of going on holiday has grown on you?’

Mark thinks about it. He nods, more certain of himself.

‘In that case, why not book a room somewhere now?’ Gary suggests, his eyes sparkling. ‘I don’t really care _where_ we go as long as it’s got a pool. A pool that has _you_ inside it, waiting for me to come and get you . . .’

Mark swallows. He desperately wants to kiss Gary again, but he decides to resist, sensing there is more to come. ‘I-I’ve never made love in a pool before.’

Gary moves his lips to Mark’s ear. He whispers, ‘We could do it now, if you want. Odyssey Towers has an indoor communal pool remember? We just have to make sure we don’t walk into Paul the security guard. And if you enjoy it, we can book that holiday on my laptop right after . . .’

‘Isn’t the pool closed?’ Mark asks, nervous excitement creeping into his voice. ‘W-won’t the d-doors be shut?’

Gary answers with a warm, full kiss on Mark’s mouth. He leans back smiling. ‘Not when you’re as famous as me.’  
  


# |LESSON TWENTY-SIX: THE POOL| 

Mark gasps. He has just entered one of the most beautiful indoor pools he has ever seen. The pool is surrounded on nearly all sides by panoramic windows. The water looks bright blue, almost ocean-like. The pool itself is stark; minimalistic. Better still, the pool on the fifth floor of Odyssey Towers is completely empty save from Mark and Gary.

Gary starts getting undressed immediately. Mark, who would swear he saw a security guard on their way here, is a little more reluctant. He’s never skinny-dipped before, let alone inside a pool that has windows on almost all sides; providing a perfect view of the city and Odyssey Tower’s neighbouring skyscrapers. Meaning the city can probably see _them_. Getting naked.

Gary can see Mark looking around him reluctantly. ‘Are you getting naked or what?’ He cocks his head to one side, a coquettish look in his eyes. ‘Or do you need _me_ to do it for you?’

Mark nods nervously. They help each other get dressed on the edge of the pool. First Mark’s shirt goes – exposing that tanned chest that Gary oh so loves digging his nails into –, then Gary’s own shirt, then Mark’s trousers.

He jumps into the pool after Gaz. It’s the first time Mark has done any swimming for years, but it comes to him as naturally as walking or breathing. Being in the water takes him back to being a weightless teenager, when the cool water in the local swimming pool would comfort him on a hot summer’s day.

Now, many years and summers later, the water is not really a reprieve but a challenge; an ever-moving, buoying obstacle that he has to cut through before he can get to Gary, his lover. The man he wants to marry.

Unfortunately, Gary’s a lot quicker than him. He’s made it to the other end of the pool within just a few seconds. It’s where the edge of the pool meets the panoramic windows; where visitors can stare into infinity as the water rocks softly against them.

Mark catches up several seconds later. He splashes Gary with water, just for kicks. Gary returns the favour with a much bigger splash, soaking Mark’s hair and making it cover his eyes. In the distraction, Gary kisses Mark, hard. Their teeth clash. They lose themselves in the kiss, Gary shoving his tongue down Mark’s throat.

It’s a bloody messy kiss, this. Gary’s hands are everywhere: tugging Mark’s long hair, his right hand grabbing Mark’s semi underneath the water’s edge.

They’re in the shallow end of the pool. All of a sudden Mark can feel the hard edge of the pool digging into his back. His feet touch solid ground as water bounces against his naked skin. Water splashes over the edge as Gary grips Mark’s hips and turns him over – facing the panoramic windows; providing Gary perfect access from behind.

Mark holds on to the edge of the pool for dear life as he feels Gary’s very hard cock rubbing against the small of his back. His own cock rubs, uncomfortably, against the wall of the shallow end of the pool. He smells chlorine. He can see the entire city stretching out in front of him like a live painting.

‘Wanna fuck, Mark?’

Mark’s heart starts racing. He can scarcely breathe. Everything feels overwhelming in the best way possible. He takes a deep breath and stammers a quick consent.

Just in case this wasn’t obvious enough, Mark follows his words with a needy roll of his hips, his arse rubbing up against the curve of Gary’s cock; his own erect prick continuously rubbing against the wall of the pool. He feels both weightless and heavy at once; hot and cool. ‘Please, Gaz.’ He can barely say the words.

‘You sure?’ Gary knows the answer already; he’s just teasing. He digs his nails into Mark’s hips hard, leaving half-moons into his skin. At the same time, he dips his teeth into Mark’s earlobe; a sensitive spot. ‘The security guard might see us . . .’

‘I-I’m sure,’ Mark says. ‘ _Please_. I need it.’

Gary doesn’t have to ask Mark what he means by that, for Gary needs it too. He needs it, hard. He needs the delicious warmth that envelops his prick as he pushes inside; and the staccato of moans that reach his ear as he starts fucking Mark inside the swimming pool.

If he could, Mark would write an entire verse about the way Gary keeps pushing in and then pulling out again. He’d write a glorious middle eight about the water that has spilled over the edges. He’d write another verse about the warmth that’s spilling inside of him; and his own orgasm that follows.

He might never be able to release a song about Gary officially, but why should he? Becoming a songwriter isn’t about becoming famous or sharing your music with millions of people; it’s about immortalising the things you love, starting with the celestial hug that Mark and Gary share as they get out of the pool, their bodies soaking wet.

That same night, the boys book their very first holiday abroad. Gary may have messed up proposing to his boyfriend twice, but he reckons he’s pretty good at choosing romantic holiday destinations.

# |LESSON TWENTY-SEVEN: THE CABIN ON THE BEACH|

Several weeks later, Mark and Gary arrive on Saint Élise, the smallest island in the Caribbean Sea, for their first-ever holiday abroad. It is half-term, so they’re staying there for a week.

The island is very much tropical. Here, the sun shines 300 days a year, 10 hours a day. Average temperatures can reach 38 to 40 degrees Celsius. It rains only very occasionally, and most beaches can be accessed freely.

The island’s main hub is the town of Progrès, where you can find a fruit market, a fishing harbour, a marina, a history museum, a market square – the town’s main hub –, and even a library. Main tourist attractions on the island are the harbour, the beaches and an active volcano. There are also diving schools and surf schools. In other words, it is a very nice island for holiday-making.

After fifteen minutes on a small train, Mark and Gary arrive at Progrés central station. The moment they walk out of the station, Mark’s jaw drops.

He and Gary have found themselves, suitcases and all, in the most beautiful town Mark has ever seen. They’re surrounded by a din of activity: people walking past smiling, merchants selling their wares at a row of market stalls not far away, tourists arriving at the train station with suitcases.

The sun is shining, of course. The air smells fresh: of summer and beaches. Everywhere Mark looks, he sees people in shorts and T-shirts. Everyone looks tanned and healthy. The train station itself looks bright and inviting.

They’re surrounded by a kaleidoscope of colours, too: bright greens and blues and reds, much brighter than the dull colours Mark sees in England every day. He thought being in Amsterdam last term was lovely, but this is even better. This is a proper, proper holiday.

And look! He even spots a couple of palm trees. Real palm trees. Palm trees on an island. An island in the Caribbean. A proper island with blue skies and palm trees and colourful houses and people who are always smiling. It’s like he is dreaming. Mark even goes as far as pinching his arm to check.

Gary turns to him. ‘What do you think?’

Mark’s a little lost for words. The only thing he can say is ‘I _love_ it,’ followed by a kiss. He kisses Gary with such enthusiasm that they nearly fall over, for Mark is wearing his massive rucksack.

Once Mark has managed to pick up his jaw from the floor, they head to the place where they will be staying. It’s not a hotel, as Mark first thought, but a solitary wooden cabin on the beach, complete with a palm tree garden and a small wooden walkway leading into the sea.

‘Gary, it’s _beautiful_ ,’ Mark says as he follows Gary’s finger pointing at the cabin on the beach. ‘How on Earth did you book _that?_ ’

‘Did I not tell you?’ Gary smiles. ‘I’m very rich, Mark.’

They take off their shoes and head to the cabin on the beach barefoot. It’s an awkward journey: there is no path leading to the cabin, which means Mark has to drag his heavy suitcase through the sand, ruining its wheels.

Thankfully, the journey is worth it. As they arrive at the cabin (surrounded by a tiny forest of palm trees), Mark knows for certain they’ve just entered a paradise within a paradise.

Like so many other things on the island, the cabin is beautiful. It’s made entirely of wood. It has a veranda with two beach chairs on it. A white hammock is balanced delicately between two trees. The front door of the cabin is just ten or fifteen metres away from the sea, and a small wooden pathway leads from the front door into the water. At the end of the pathway, there’s a small wooden boat, complete with wooden paddles. The only thing you can hear is seagulls talking to one another and the sound of the water crashing into the beach.

So far, so good. But what about the inside?

Mark takes off his heavy rucksack and leaves his luggage and shoes out on the veranda. He enters the cabin slowly, wanting to take in every detail. The cabin is small, but it’s got a king-size bed and a living area (along with two sofas), a bathroom and even a kitchen. When you open all the windows, you can see the sea from all angles.

He slowly runs his fingers across the wood grain of the walls, of which there are just four. The rest of the house has been divided with tasteful partitions; those big wooden things you can get dressed behind. He can feel grains of sand getting stuck between his toes. He smells the sea. He hears a wind chime tinkling softly. On a palm tree outside, he can see a tiny green lizard stopping to stare at him.

‘What do you think?’ asks Gary. He, of course, already knew how nice the cabin would be.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Mark says as much. He’s got a childlike look in his eyes. ‘Absolutely beautiful.’

Mark steps out onto the veranda. He rests his hands on the railing and takes a deep breath, breathing in the sea. He’s so used to breathing in the toxic wastes of the city he lives in that he didn’t think clean air even existed.

Everything on the island seems rather untouched in comparison. There is nature everywhere: from the palm trees to the seagulls. Even the cabin itself has been taken over by nature: there is sand creeping into all its floorboards, and every now and then, a lizard can be seen crawling atop a window sill. If he and Gary don’t write any songs here, then they never will.

‘I still can’t believe we’re staying here. We _are_ staying here, aren’t we?’ Mark looks up at a cloudless sky, the bluest sky he’s ever seen. ‘It’s so _perfect_. How did you find it?’

‘The owner of this cabin, he owed me a favour,’ Gary explains. ‘I got Elton John to perform at his birthday party a couple of years ago. He doesn’t use the cabin much, so we can do anything we want to.’

‘Anything, Gaz?’ Mark’s breath stops in his throat.

‘Anything.’ Gary hugs Mark from behind. He snakes his hands around Mark’s waist. Pulls him closer. Kisses the back of his head.

Mark feels the warmth of a blush rising up his neck. Gary’s mouth finds his exposed skin, and his head starts spinning as though the Earth just tumbled off its axis. He closes his eyes. He savours the feeling of Gary’s lips leaving butterfly kisses on his skin. The smell of the salty sea drifts towards him on a breeze. There’s the sound of seagulls arguing in the sky; waves crashing against the beach. As ever, Gary’s mouth finds exactly the right places on his neck.

He seems to know just what to say, too.

‘We could check out the bed if you want to,’ Gary whispers.

Mark laughs. He leans back against Gary’s taller frame. Reluctantly, he has to admit that he’s feeling rather tired. He left England when it was evening and arrived on Saint Élise in the afternoon, so his body has rather lost the plot. It’s rather exhausting, going on holiday.

So, instead of checking out the bed in the cabin only to make love in it, the boys use the bed for what it was made for – sleeping – and sleep like logs. Mark is soon drifted to sleep by the sound of the waves rocking against the beach. He dreams about proposing to Gary in an auditorium with a diamond wedding ring.

Mark can still smell the sea when he wakes up again at three in the morning. It is dark. He sees a blanket of stars from the bedroom window beyond; and a faint glimpse of the sea when he lifts up his head from his pillow. He can feel Gary’s hands gripping his hips in the dark, and he drifts off again, happier than he’s ever been.   
  


# |LESSON TWENTY-EIGHT: THE BEST TIME|

It’s the next day. After another eventful day on the island, Mark sits down on the veranda to write in his journal. Gary has gone for a run on the beach.   
  


_Saint Élise – Day 2_

_Dear Journal,_

_This morning, I rose when the sun did. I opened my eyes, and the sun was right there, hitting the windows and illuminating the particles of dust floating in the air, creating these kinds of beams of light. It was beautiful._

_Then Gary woke too, and we sort of looked at each other and I felt my tummy being flipped over like a pancake, and he dipped down to kiss me softly. I found his half-naked body underneath the blankets and pulled him on top of me, and we made love for the first time since arriving on the island._

_I can still feel my cheeks burning when I think about it. The sex we had was soft and warm. We took it slow – I love it when a guy fucks me really slowly and then speeds up again and slows down again –, but I loved it._

_We’d kept the windows open, so I tried to bite my tongue whenever Gary hit that spot inside. Gary reassured me that no-one would hear us, but I wasn’t convinced because I’d heard tourists walking past the cabin just the other day. Knowing this, I tried to be quiet. _

_Well, as quiet as I can be anyway. I know I’m a bit . . . you know. I’m a bit loud. I don’t do it on purpose – it’s just that when Gary shags me right, all of these noises tumble out of my mouth and I can’t make it stop! _

_After we’d made love, we had breakfast in the cabin and got dressed (or the other way around, I can’t really remember). We had a pretty simple continental breakfast, but tomorrow we’re going to eat breakfast at one of the local restaurants near the harbour. I’m already excited._

_It was my turn to decide what we were going to do today. I couldn’t choose between a visit to the harbour or the town square of the local history museum, so we did a bit of everything. I enjoyed myself so much that I think I must have taken about one hundred photos. I took thirty photos of lizards alone. The island has a lot of those, lizards._

_Have I ever mentioned that I used to have a lizard, Journal? I used to have a pet lizard, Nirvana. I think he scared off my mates because I didn’t have anyone coming over for a couple of years. I thought Nirvana was an amazing pet, though. He didn’t do much apart from sort of staring at me and sticking out his tongue and eating a lot of flies, but I loved him. Sadly, Nirvana died when someone mistook him for my mum’s green slippers. I like to think that Nirvana’s in lizard heaven now, partying with all the lizards in the sky._

_What was I talking about again? Let me see . . . oh, yeah – pictures. I took many pictures today. It makes me feel like a proper tourist, taking pictures. I mean, I’m obviously not that great at it, but I do like the pics I take of Gaz. Especially the one we took after we’d . . . you know. I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to, but he didn’t seem to mind when I took my camera out of my bag this morning and I took a pic of him lying on his side on the bed with the bedsheets covering all the important parts of his body. _

_I love that photo. I think it belongs in a museum. Not in Saint Élise’s history museum, though, obviously. That museum was very serious and sort of stern, like when you have to tell off a student for laughing._

_What else have we done? Oh – we’ve both been doing a lot of writing. Gary says his album is finally taking shape, but I think he’s still got a long way to go because most albums have twelve songs, and he’s only written five or six. He also still has to organise this event for Mrs Kennedy-Cairns OBE, which I don’t think is going very well. I really wish I could help him._

_  
_Mark looks back at what he’s written. It’s been a while since he wrote a journal entry that was this positive. His entries always have an element of sadness to them: a lesson going wrong, or a student who’s being bullied.

Tomorrow, he and Gaz have plans to check out the local wildlife at the Élise National Park, perhaps stopping at a viewing platform to write songs. The day after that, a visit to the beach. And the day after that? Who knows. He’ll go wherever the island takes him.

***

_Saint Marie – Day 3_

_Dear Journal,_

_Me and Gaz did something really bad today. Well, not “bad” bad. Just . . . naughty, I guess. Very naughty. Naughtier than I’ve ever been._

_I’ll start at the beginning. This morning, we went to check out the local wildlife at the Élise National Park. It’s one of those parks where you can walk around freely and see a lot of birds flying above your head. There were a lot of lizards, too. I love lizards. I think I mentioned in my previous journal that I used to have a pet lizard, Nirvana._

_I found the park so inspiring that when we sat down at a viewing platform at the park, I immediately took out this journal and wrote a couple of songs. I know I haven’t got a record deal or anything like that, but that doesn’t mean I have to stop writing._

_Gary did the same. Like me, he sat down and wrote a song that I thought looked very promising when I craned my neck to look at it._

_We stayed at the resort for over five hours. When me and Gaz came back, the cabin was even more taken-over-by-nature than before. There was sand in all the cracks in the floor. A tiny lizard was perched on a window sill. The smell of the sea was stronger than ever. I could hear the sea crashing against a cliff._

_We continued to write on the beach chairs on the veranda (the sun was slowly setting), and Gary looked so lovely that I couldn’t help but take a photo of him. He just looked so beautiful, sat in a chair there with a pen stuck behind his right ear, his face staring at the words he’d written. The fact that the sun was setting made him even more perfect. _

_As I took more and more photos, my eye kept noticing little details I hadn’t dared photograph before, like the hairs on Gary’s chest; or the way Gary’s large hands held his notebook; or Gary’s toes that were covered in sand. I wanted to capture all of it._

_I pressed the video button on my camera and grabbed Gary’s hand._

_I lead Gary back into the cabin. He followed me willingly. My camera – now in video mode – captured everything. I pulled the wooden partition closed and pushed Gaz on the king-sized bed. I crawled on top of him as well as I could with one hand holding the camera. His body was between my thighs. I told him I was filming him._

_Gary just smiled. I put my camera on a wooden cabinet next to the bed and left the camera running while I climbed on top of Gaz and he fucked me._

_Filming myself is not something I’ve ever done (and I probably won’t ever do it again, to be honest, because I almost got a heart-attack when Gaz almost pressed the “upload to iPad” button by accident when we watched ourselves back), but it was fun. It felt good._

_As we watched the video, I felt myself getting hard all over again. I loved seeing Gary’s prick disappearing inside of me on camera and watching my own face change into expressions I didn’t know my face was capable of making. I did ask Gary to turn the sound off, though. I sounded a little bit embarrassing, to tell you the truth. (If you’ve ever watched an adult movie, you’ll know what I mean.) I loved the rest, though._

_Why did I do it? I guess it’s because the island is making me feel freer than I ever have. Back in England,_

_I feel like I always have something to be worried or anxious about. I don’t have that on Saint Élise. Here, I don’t have to worry about lesson plans or staff meetings or whether or not I turned off the gas when I left the house. Here, I can just be. _

_Of course, we deleted the video after we’d watched it. If my camera ever got in the wrong hands, we’d be in an awful lot of trouble. Teachers don’t do naughty things, do they? They only do good things. But for a couple of minutes, I was able to see just how wonderful me and Gaz looked together. _

_And I have to admit – I thought we kind of looked like a married couple.  
  
_

# |LESSON TWENTY-NINE: TWO BIRDS, ONE STONE|

The next morning, the boys decide to go sunbathing. Two pairs of footprints in the sand indicate the way Gary and Mark have travelled. A tall cliff casts a large shadow over the beach. There’s no need to bring a parasol. They edge their chairs into the shadow, and they sit. They’re alone: it’s so early that no other tourists have ventured here yet. Theirs are the only footprints.

They’re not planning to do much: Mark has brought a book with him, about a travelling space circus, and meanwhile Gary is going to try to write more songs in a notebook. Ever since he and Mark arrived at Saint Élise, he has been writing non-stop. Clearly, all it took for his writer’s block to disappear was blue skies and sex. If he keeps going, his album will be finished way before Dorypol’s deadline – or so it _should_. He’s happy with the songs he’s written on the island, but something is missing. Something huge. Problem is, he doesn’t know what.

Nevertheless, Gary keeps writing. Mark keeps reading.

After a couple of minutes of reading about space circuses (he’s just reached a chapter in which the blonde captain of the ship discovers a tall and handsome stowaway that he will no doubt end up shagging), Mark is beginning to shift in his chair. His face has gone rather red. He kept his blouse on for some reason, and it’s beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable.

Gary looks at him. He raises his eyebrows; he’s only just noticed how much Mark is wearing. ‘Are you not hot in that, Marko?’

Mark shakes his head. He flips to the next page of his book. ‘M’fine,’ he says, even though he is boiling. He likes his layers, and he’d like to keep them on, please.

‘You sure? You look like you’re dressed for the Arctic,’ Gary points out, exaggerating somewhat.

‘M’fine.’ Mark shifts in his deck chair. He can feel a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. Mark Owen gets sweaty very quickly and very easily, and this morning is no exception.

One of his layers is going to have to go.

Flustered, Mark takes off his blouse, revealing a T-shirt and a pair of Quite Nice arms. He ignores Gary’s triumphant look. ‘It needed a wash, anyway,’ he lies.

Gary smiles. One of those cheeky smiles. ‘It’s only going to get hotter from here – you might as well take off all your clothes now.’

‘No thanks,’ says Mark, who still gets embarrassed about getting dressed in front of his lover.

‘ _I’m_ gonna,’ says Gary, and he takes off his own vest. This makes Mark’s face go even redder, because Gary Barlow looks incredibly fuckable when he is shirtless. 

His heart hammering, Mark buries his nose inside his book. He’ll never get used to seeing Gary naked, not ever.

***

Ten minutes later, Mark dozes off inside his deck chair. He later wakes to the sound of Gary tearing a piece of paper out of a notebook.

The first thing Mark sees when he opens his eyes is that the area around Gary’s deck chair is covered in crumpled-up pieces of paper. Gary must have been writing while Mark was taking a nap.

‘You all right, Gaz?’

Gary shakes his head. (He’s still shirtless, by the way.) ‘I’m trying to finish this song, but I’m stuck. I can’t get the lyrics to sound right.’

‘Can I have a look at it?’

Gary hands Mark his notebook. Mark balances the notebook on his bare thighs and reads. The lyrics are pretty good: heartfelt, emotive, warm. Clever. It rhymes in all the right places. Gary’s used words that Mark has never seen used in pop before. In other words, this has all the potential to become an utterly amazing pop song, perhaps even a top 5 hit. Frankly, Mark can’t see what’s wrong with it.

He hands Gary back his notebook. ‘Why do you not like it?’

‘It doesn’t fit with the other songs I’ve written,’ Gary explains. ‘I’ve six songs that I want to record and put on the album for sure, but six songs don’t make an album.’

Mark nods, understanding. ‘You need six more.’

‘Yeah. I don’t know where I’m gonna get them from, though. They’re good, the six I’ve written – so good that I don’t wanna add anything else really. But the label, they’ll want more. And then Lou texted me while you were napping, telling me I need to get a move on with the event I’m supposed to organise for the school. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to worry about it.’ Gary glances at the crumpled-up pieces of paper in the sand: seven in total. Seven failed song attempts. ‘Do you mind if we go for a walk, Mark? I don’t think it’s helping me creatively, being sat here . . .’

They take a stroll on the beach.

Eventually, they reach a part of the beach that’s owned by Paradise Resorts, the hotel on the cliff. There are people here: couples, families with children, teenagers who are sunbathing.

Abruptly, the beach stops. It’s been stopped in its tracks by rock and stone. To their left, there is the tall cliff with the hotel on top; to their right: the water, a safe distance away.

Gary tests his foot on the rock surface. It’s not slippery. He takes Mark’s hand in his own, and off they go, away from the other tourists. It’s not an entirely comfortable walk, but the eventual reward makes it utterly worth it.

They’ve come across a cave. It looks like a massive hole, carved out from the stone cliff by a giant. Outside it, there’s a small patch of sand: a private beach, invisible to the guests of Paradise Resorts. In other words, it’s perfect.

They sit in front of the cave opening. Mark sinks his hands into the sand, watching it cascade out of his splayed fingers like a waterfall. Meanwhile, Gary is more occupied with looking over his shoulder and wondering how deep the cave goes.

‘What’d you think of that, then?’ says Gary. He cocks his head at the cave. Raises one eyebrow.

‘It’s pretty,’ says Mark, who’s already discovered a much more interesting crab shuffling side-ways on the beach.

‘We could go inside and shag.’

‘In _there?_ No thanks,’ says Mark, laughing. He runs his fingers through the sand, utterly captivated by the texture of it. He loves how malleable the sand is, and how easily it is to fill your hands with it.

Finally, he looks up. He tries to read Gary’s expression. He can tell Gary doesn’t want to go inside the cave really. ‘How are you feeling, by the way?’

‘Worried,’ Gary huffs. It sounds like a confession. ‘I still can’t stop thinking about work, to be honest. Ever since Lou texted me, me brain’s been on overdrive, thinking about the event she and the school council want me to organise.’

‘Is that the event that’s supposed to promote the school?’

Gary nods. He explains. Ever since the former head of Music got arrested for exam fraud, the music department has become less and less popular with prospective students in the community. The school council wants the Music department to organise a special event to make the school popular again.

‘I don’t want to let Lou down, but I think it’s a lost cause, this event,’ Gary explains. He absentmindedly runs his fingers through the warm sand. ‘The best idea we have is an _egg-and-spoon_ race. That’s only going to put people off. I still worry sometimes that the school will close.’

‘It won’t. Our school will never close.’

‘Our department still might, if I don’t come up with anything soon. _You_ don’t happen to have any ideas, do you?’

Mark puts his hand to his chin.

‘Why don’t you organise a song contest?’ he says, improvising on the spot.

Mark was expecting a grateful nod, but Gary’s face is blank. ‘A song contest? Like Eurovision?’

‘No, not like Eurovision. Well, I suppose it _would_ be a bit like Eurovision. But not really.’ Then an even better idea pops into Mark’s head. Now that I think of it, why don’t you organise a song contest for _you_?’

Gary has no idea what Mark is talking about. He puts up his hand to shade his eyes from the sunlight. ‘Mark. Help me out here. What do you mean, organise a contest for _me?_ ’

Mark makes a face as if to say, _Isn’t it obvious?_ ‘You said you still need six songs for your album, didn’t you? Why not ask our students to write them _for_ you?’

Gary waits, but his boyfriend does not elaborate. He has to work out what Mark is saying himself. Contest . . . songs . . . album . . . students . . . students writing songs . . . song contest . . .

All of a sudden, the penny drops. No, not a penny – it hits Gary like a massive brick.

He’s going to organise a _song_ contest.

‘Mark, you’re a _genius._ ’

Gary plants a grateful kiss on Mark’s lips. Mark’s body flushes with shock. He can feel the heat radiating off of Gary’s naked chest. He has to resist the urge to kiss Gary back.

First, his idea. A song contest, organised by Gary, for Gary.

Reluctantly (for it was a very good kiss), Mark breaks away from the kiss. He looks a little flustered. ‘Does this mean you like my idea, then?’ a statement, not a question.

‘Do I _like_ it? Mate, I absolutely love it.’ Gary is beaming. He could jump into the ocean and swim a mile, he’s so happy. ‘Talk me through it.’

‘Well, you know, instead of you kind of trying to write the remaining six songs for your album yourself, I think you should let the students do it _for_ you. Or – even better,’ Mark adds, improvising still, ‘open the contest for everyone in the community! Everyone who likes music can submit a song, and you’ll choose and record the six best ones for your album. Everyone will want to take part, and the school will become popular again, just like Mrs Kennedy-Cairns wanted.’

Gary shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Genius.’ He’s so impressed that he can’t say anything else.

For lack of a sensible thing to say, Gary kisses Mark on the mouth again. It was meant to be just an innocent “thank you for being such a clever boyfriend” snog, but all it does is Mark make all the more aware of his own body: his soaked T-shirt clinging to the small of his back, his toes covered in sand, the bead of sweat rolling down his chest.

He unconsciously puts his hands on Gary’s bare chest, feeling small hairs against his fingertips. He can feel the sand shifting beneath his own bodyweight. He tastes sand on Gary’s tongue. How it got there, he does not know.

Gary’s mouth moves lower quite quickly. The only words he says are mumbled words against Mark’s skin: _you’re so fucking sexy, you’re a genius,_ that sort of stuff. Words that make Mark hard.

‘Maybe I should start charging for my ideas,’ Mark whispers. Gary’s teeth sink into his neck. He moans loudly. He might as well; there’s no-one around to hear him. ‘Two hundred pounds, maybe? Three?’

‘I reckon you’re worth a helluva lot more than that,’ Gary hisses. He pushes Mark to the ground, moving against him slowly while intensifying the kiss.

Mark responds with his own hunger. He wraps his arms around Gary’s shirtless torso, pulling him closer. He can feel sand getting inside his T-shirt. His hard prick rubs against the inside of his shorts. He can feel Gary’s knee digging into his crotch.

Then he reverses their roles. 

It happens so quickly Gary doesn’t have the quickness of mind to respond. His body becomes a victim to gravity. He can feel his back colliding with the beach, hard. Mark is suddenly at on top of him. Taking his shirt off, exposing his tanned chest. Grinding his hips. Touching Gary all over. About to fuck him.

‘ _I_ top,’ is all Mark says. He tucks the tips of his fingers underneath the hem of Gary’s shorts. He’s got his lover between his thighs.

Gary’s entire body has flushed scarlet. He bites his lip. He feels dizzy with excitement. ‘You sure are full of good ideas today, aren’t you, Marko?’

The only thing Mark does is smile and make a circling motion with his index finger. _Turn over_.

Gary does as he’s told. He rolls over on his back. He hides his face in the crook of his elbow. He can feel his shorts going and his boxers being pulled down. He braces himself, but nothing comes. He wriggles his arse. Pushes it up _just so._ He’s desperate. Needy. ‘C’mon, lad, what’re you waiting for?’

Mark chuckles. He sounds smug. _In control._ He’s pulled down his own shorts and boxers so that they rest just below his hipbone.

He deliberately says nothing. He waits. Apart from the blood rushing inside his ears, the only sound he hears is the tell-tale sounds of a beach: the constant coming and going of the water; tourists laughing far away from here, and the occasional cry of a seagull. He has every right to be loud, and yet he does not speak. He does not even whisper.

The only sound he makes is his hand slapping Gary’s arse.

A seagull takes off. He does it again. And again until Gary has no choice but to dig his teeth into his arm to stop himself from shouting out. ‘ _Please_ , Mark.’ It’s the only thing Gary can say.

Mark runs his hands across Gary’s red arse. He can feel Gary’s skin burning against his palms. He deliberately takes his time. He runs his hands across every inch of skin he can see: Gary’s tanned back; his burning skin; his legs, splayed out on the sand.

Time passes differently on Saint Élise, so they might as well take it easy. Time always feels rushed in England, but not here. Here, they don’t have to worry about the ticking of a clock or having to rush their sex because they have a meeting coming up. They can be as slow or as fast as they like.

And Mark likes it very slow indeed.

Slowly, Mark moves his hands back down the curve of Gary’s arse, stopping only to slap it again.

He wets his finger inside his mouth. He pushes a finger inside. Just one. Gary almost implodes. He pushes his arse back up, saying _more; give me more_ , but Mark is very good at pretending he is deaf. He fucks Gary with just the one finger, moving it in and out at an agonizingly slow tempo. He’s teasing Gary more than ever before. He’s making him wait for what is coming, moving his fingers inside only when Gary is begging for more loudly enough.

But then – and then, when Gary thinks he’s finally had enough of being teased, Mark gives in. He, too, cannot wait any longer. Time on the island has picked up again.

A feeling not unlike a wave washes over Mark as he pushes his hard prick inside. Warmth envelops his prick. He can see Gary’s body tensing and then relaxing in front of him. He waits. He stops. He tilts back his head and bites his lip, savouring the sensation of Gary’s tight body pulsing against his own.

For a second, Mark wonders if there have ever been moments when his heart was beating in sync with Gary’s. They can already read each other’s minds and finish each other’s sentences, so it’s not beyond the realm of possibilities that their bodies are on the same wavelength too. Perhaps their hearts are syncopated right now. If Mark’s heart skips a beat, will Gary feel it too? From now on, will they always orgasm at the same time?

An impatient expletive from Gary’s mouth makes Mark lose his train of thought. Gary’s telling him to get on with it. _Fuck me._ _Do it already_.

Mark calls Gary something equally outrageous (a word starting with an S), and he pushes his complicated questions to the back of his mind. He gets on with it. He picks up the pace.

It’s a pace that does not fit the island. The island is slow, relaxing, silent and calm, but this – this is fast. It is relentless. It hurts, in the best way. It suits Gary perfectly, who feels more pleasure the faster Mark is. Each stroke tilts him closer to the edge. And closer. And closer until he screams it out and he has to dig his hands into the malleable sand. His body writhes and coils as Mark follows suit inside of him, screaming rather. Warmth fills his body.

For a moment, Gary is lost. He is gone. He has entered the upper layers of the Earth's atmosphere. Then a flushed, sweaty Mark Owen kisses the back of his sunburnt neck, and he flutters back to planet Earth, to this beach with its cave and lone palm tree; a paradise within a paradise.

It goes without saying that the sex was good; so good that Gary almost wishes he could ask Mark to marry him on the spot.

Instead, Gary just holds Mark close for as long as he dares. By the time they finally part (rather reluctantly), Gary’s skin has gone a lobster sort of colour from not putting enough sun cream on. He has no choice but put his clothes back on.

This is when Gary has an idea. They’re in the middle of getting dressed when he gets a sort of epiphany. ‘Mark, why don’t _you_ take part in the talent show?’

Mark tightens the strings of his shorts without looking at what he’s doing. His look at Gary is delicately sceptical. His boyfriend might as well have suggested that they visit Mars on their next holiday. ‘Very funny, Gaz.’

‘I’m serious – I think you should take part.’ Gary puts his shorts back on.

‘Wouldn’t it be against the rules if a teacher took part?’

‘Rules? Which rules? _I’d_ be the one organising the event – meaning, _I’m_ gonna be the one to decide who’s allowed to take part or not. I don’t see a problem allowing teachers to compete as long as it gets people interested in the school again.’ Gary stops talking long enough to pull his shirt over his head, messing up his already sand-covered hair. His arms look red; sun-burnt. ‘You told me back in England that you want to release music on your own terms – this event can give you that.’

Mark’s eyes flicker with indecision. He does like the idea of a song contest _in general_ (after all, he’s the one who came up with it), but he dreads the idea of competing himself. How could he ever justify taking part in a contest that’s being judged and hosted by the person he is shagging? It wouldn’t be fair. ‘If I took part, Gaz, you’d only be giving me special treatment. I don’t think you’d be impartial at all.’

‘I would. I’d be judging the songs blind. Or even better – I could ask someone else to do it _for_ me.’

‘Really? Who?’ Mark is being deliberately stubborn. ‘Most of the people you know are always busy, Gaz. Who on Earth is going to have time to listen to a bunch of songs for you?’

‘Dunno. Dave Dorypol. Dua Lipa. Harry Styles! Lou. Mr Astley.’ Mark can see Gary falter on those names. He obviously hasn’t thought about this yet. ‘It’s still a work in progress, this. I didn’t even know I was going to organise a song contest until _you_ came up with it half an hour ago.’

‘Well, _I_ think me taking part is going to make a lot of people very upset.’ There’s a trace of uncertainty in Mark’s expression. He averts his gaze to the cave just behind Gary’s head. ‘I wouldn’t win, anyway.’

‘I disagree. I think people would love it, and I think you’d do _brilliantly_.’

Gary gives Mark a meaningful look, hoping he will reconsider, but Mark’s an extremely stubborn man. ‘Promise me you’ll think about it, at least,’ pleads Gaz.

Mark stares up at the blue sky, hoping for some sort of divine intervention. ‘I don’t know, Gaz.’

‘ _Please_.’ Gary holds out his hand. Mark takes it without hesitation. He can feel grains of sand on Gary’s palm. ‘I know it’s a bit hard to think after you’ve just been shagged by a famous pop star and all—’ (Here, Mark snorts in an unflattering manner) ‘—but do think about it, _please_. D’you know what, why don’t you give me your answer when we get back to our cabin? Let’s head back there now. Now, where did I leave me sunglasses . . . ?’

Gary finds his sunglasses half-covered in sand. They walk back down the shore in silence. It’s not an uncomfortable silence; Mark is thinking, and Gary is trying to make a mental list of potential fellow judges for his contest. (Mrs Knight, maybe? Elton John? No, he probably wouldn’t be available. Maybe he’ll ask Mr Stevens.)

Hand in hand, the boys leave the stretch of sand where they made love, looking over their shoulders only to see that the evidence of their liaison has already disappeared.

It’s quite difficult to think after you’ve just been naked with someone, but it’s not impossible. Quietly, Mark weighs up his arguments for competing in the song contest using an imaginary scale in his head. Some of the arguments weigh a little more than others, like Gary not being impartial if Mark took part. Would it be fair to the other contestants if Mark took part in a contest set up by his boyfriend? Would _he_ feel comfortable competing for one of the six spots on Gary’s album, knowing there are young talents who deserve it more?

Then again, taking part in the contest might give Mark the validation he so desperately needs. The contest would be a bit like the writing camps he used to attend, when he was surrounded by music and artists day in, day out. It does sound rather fun.

On the _other_ hand, Mark thinks, as the scales in his head tilt all the way down, he does not want his songwriting career to depend on his boyfriend. He does not want Gary to help him with his music career, ever. He wants to become a singer-songwriter-teacher on his own terms. That means he has to do it alone. No contests, no well-connected boyfriends, no people like Keith and Christopher trying to help him out.

Still – if Gary is going to judge the songs blind (the scales in Mark’s head change positions again), then there’s no way Gary will know which song is whose. Gary may know Mark well, but it takes an expert to recognise a songwriter’s unique handwriting. Knowing this, it might be worth sending in a song after all. He could even do it under a different name.

Mark is torn. By the time they reach their cabin, the scales in his head are in equilibrium. He doesn’t want to take part, _but_. . . He doesn’t want to miss out, _but_. . .

He doesn’t know what to do. He tells Gary as much. ‘I know you asked me to give you my answer once we reached the cabin, Gaz, but, well, I don’t know if I want to take part in your – our – contest yet.’

‘That’s okay,’ Gary replies with studied calm.

‘You’re not disappointed?’

‘Never.’ Gary shakes his head. Whether Mark competes or not doesn’t really matter. What matters is that Mark came up with the idea for the contest at all; an idea so brilliant that it could really only have been a Mark Owen invention. ‘At this point, I’d be absolutely _thrilled_ if you were just a part of the audience.’

Mark raises his eyebrows. ‘There will be an audience, Gaz?’

‘I thought that was obvious. It’s a contest, isn’t it? A contest needs an audience.’

Mark makes a punctuated _hum_ with his mouth. Clearly, he does not agree. ‘When I mentioned a contest, I was more picturing, you know, just you listening to the entries in your studio somewhere.’ He strokes his chin. ‘I think that maybe we need to think this a bit more.’

‘We will. But not today. Let’s just cuddle instead, shall we?’ Gary gives Mark’s hand a soft squeeze, and the song contest becomes a matter for another day.

They step into the small cabin with its sand-covered floors, towards the sofa where they made love only yesterday, and slowly the scales in Mark’s head tip the other way.

# |LESSON THIRTY: GOING HOME|

_Saint Élise – day 6_

_Dear Journal,_

_Sadly, it’s our final day on the island. We’re flying back to England at four in the afternoon today. As I sit here enjoying my last moments in our cabin, I find myself wondering, “What was my favourite moment of this trip?” “Were there any things I didn’t like as much as all the other things?”_

_I suppose I didn’t like the sand that much. There’s quite a lot of it on Saint Élise. This makes sense, because Saint Élise is an island, and islands have quite a lot of beaches don’t they, but I don’t like sand that much when it ends up in places where you don’t want sand to end up._

_Other than that, I loved our little holiday abroad. I loved it when we visited the local park with all the birds I didn’t know the names of. I loved it when we made love in our cabin and I filmed it and we watched ourselves back and I could see our bodies coming together. I loved it when we stayed up till midnight and I lost count of all the stars in the sky. (I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many stars before.) I loved the small beach we discovered, you know, with the palm tree and the cave that I didn’t dare enter._

_But what I enjoyed most of all, Journal, even more than the stars and the beach and the birds . . . was Gary. My Gary. You know when you listen to one of your favourite songs and you love it even more than you did yesterday? That’s how I feel about Gaz. Every day, I discover something new about him, like his love for ABBA. Or the freckle on his back. Or the fact that he’s afraid of horses and that he genuinely thinks they’re evil, which is ridiculous because I think horses are beautiful. I love all of those little discoveries._

_So if I had to pick just one favourite moment, it’d be all the moments I spent with Gaz, pressed together like a diamond. A big sparkly diamond on a ring._

_  
_Mark glances over his shoulder to see Gary making arrangements for their flight on his iPad, his bags ready for departure on the floor. The coast is clear. Mark continues writing. His heart starts beating a little faster as he writes down his next words.  
  


_Maybe it’s just all the sand getting to my head, Journal, but I’ve been having dreams about diamond wedding rings ever since we got here. Big wedding rings. Small ones. Wedding rings in black velvet boxes. Wedding rings on Gary’s ring finger. It’s an image my brain can’t seem to let go. Whenever I close my eyes and I drift off to sleep, I always enter a world in which we and Gaz are married or about to. Every morning, I wake up feeling a little sad because I know Gary’s not the marrying type. He’s a pop star, after all. I’m not sure if pop stars are made for marriage. Maybe they are. I don’t know._

_  
_Mark stops writing to read back what he’s written. He blushes at the paragraph he just wrote.  
  


_I’ve gone off on a bit of a tangent, haven’t I!? I can’t even remember what I was writing about when I first opened this journal ten minutes ago. Let me see . . . I was writing about Gary packing his bags, by the looks of it._

_Anyway, one day, I want to read back this journal and smile at all the memories me and Gaz made. My goal is to fill as many journals about my life with Gaz as I can, just writing about the little things like Gary drumming his fingers on the armrest of a chair when he’s got a song stuck in his head. I want to capture every moment I can. I want to—_

  
Ping! The sound of an incoming text message stops Mark in his tracks. It’s his phone. He reaches into the rucksack on the sofa to get it. He brightens when he flips open his smartphone case and sees the alert on his screen. Rob has texted him! In the text, Rob says that he wants to talk to Mark about something “exciting”. He wonders what it is. He types a quick reply, then continues writing in his journal with a big smile on his face. He flips to a brand new page. A new page for a new memory.

  
_Dear Journal,_

_I’ve just had a text from Rob. He says he’s got something very important to tell me. Something “exciting”. I wonder what it is!_

_I’ve never really experienced homesickness before because I haven’t travelled that much, but when Rob texted me just now I did feel quite homesick. Homesick, but also excited._

_I think that when me and Gaz return to England and Rob has told me what he’s so excited about, our lives will be a little different once more. Gaz will start organising the contest that we both came up with and finally finish recording his album. Meanwhile, I’ll feel even more inspired to write me own songs than ever before._

_Will I take part in the contest? I don’t know yet. But whatever I do, I know that it’ll be yet another memory to look forward to._

_So long, Saint Élise. I’ll remember you forever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter features Willorange being cute and some Barlowen shower sex. Yay!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gary asks his record label if he can organise a song contest. Meanwhile, Rob is thinking about asking Jay to move in with him.

# |LESSON THIRTY-ONE: ASKING DAVE FOR PERMISSION|

Gary heads straight for the reception desk at Dorypol HQ, his long trench coat billowing behind him as though he is a detective in a crime story. He leans on the desk impatiently. The reception area is empty. Usually, the building is a hive of activity.

‘I need to talk to Dave,’ Gary demands of Dave Dorypol’s executive secretary, a tall guy with slicked-back hair.

The secretary looks up from the handwritten piece of paper that he was typing out on his keyboard. His dark eyes flicker with recognition, but he is not awestruck.

‘Mr Dorypol doesn’t like it when people show up unannounced. If you want to meet him, you’ll have to schedule an appointment through me first.’ The secretary continues typing out his message, his eyes on his screen. ‘These rules apply to everyone, Mr Barlow. Even _you_.’

‘I’m pretty sure Dave won’t mind us bending the rules if you tell him I’ve got a brilliant idea for the record he’s asked me to release,’ Gary says. He’s here to tell Mr Dorypol about his idea for the song contest, of course. ‘Why don’t you phone him up, eh, _er_ . . . Josh, is it?’

Gary’s eyes squint to read the secretary’s name tag. His brain rings a small brass bell of recognition at the sight of the name. Why?

Gary tries to remember. Maybe he once had a student called Josh? Students from the Music department do have a tendency to end up in office jobs at local record labels, so it’d make sense if Gary vaguely knew the secretary from school. Unless . . .

Gary realises with a painful shock where he knows Josh from. Josh is one of the guys Mark met at the Wytheforth Hotel to talk about his music career. Josh, who told Mark he had to change his sound. Josh, who had invited two A&R reps from Hopper records – Dorypol’s direct competitor – to criticise Mark’s music. Josh, who had called Mark’s music “crap”.

Josh, who’s sat right in front of him now, staring at him as though he’s a fleck of dirt on his shoulder. _That_ Josh.

Gary can feel his blood boiling. He felt gutted for Mark when he found out what happened at the Hotel. Mark had put his complete trust in Josh – even going as far as sending the secretary his best and most interesting songs – but all he got in return was three people telling him his music was boring. Mark’s music, which is so raw and melodious and vulnerable – described as “boring”.

Just thinking about it now makes Gary feel angry all over again. He takes a deep breath to compose himself. Instead, he smiles. A fake smile, just like the secretary’s.

‘Josh. _Josh_. I don’t think we’ve ever had a decent conversation, have we?’

‘I don’t see why we should,’ Josh shrugs. Still staring at his screen. ‘It’s not like we’ve got anything in common.’

‘I think we do,’ Gary says. He already finds that he has to fight hard to keep his voice level. ‘We’re both pretty successful, aren’t we? I mean, you’ve made it pretty far, you have, being Dave’s executive secretary. You’ve pretty much got the entire music industry at the tips of your fingers. You’ve got every single pop star’s phone number on your computer right there. You probably started small and worked your way up. My students would kill to have your job, they would.’

Josh makes a movement as though he’s about to interrupt, but Gary holds up his hand. _I’m doing the talking_.

‘Now, _I’ve_ never abused my position in the music industry, I haven’t,’ Gary goes on, as calm as he’s ever been, ‘but you, Josh – you have, haven’t you? You’re abusing your position right now. You’re using it to lead people on. You’re _moonlighting._ ’

The secretary scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest. He has that “student pretending he doesn’t realise he’s broken a role in class” look about him. ‘What the _hell_ are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about your side-job of helping people get into the music industry. The one your boss doesn’t know about it. Except – you’re not _really_ helping them, are you? You’re just pretending to make yourself feel good.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ says Josh, faltering on his words. His face is beginning to look quite purple.

‘I think you do,’ Gary goes on. ‘A couple of weeks ago, you and two friends of yours met a colleague of mine. Mark Owen. You said you’d help him get in touch with big names in the music industry. But you weren’t helping him at all. You just wanted to _change_ him.

‘How many more people are you going to try to manipulate, Josh? Cos Mark’s lucky – he’s old enough to know when someone is trying to mould him into something he’s not. But many young artists, they won’t know better. They’ll think that you’re _right_ , and that you have to change yourself if you want to become successful in music.’

Josh scoffs. Knowing when to admit defeat, his entire posture changes; he goes from being a slick secretary to being someone who always has a look in his eyes as though he’s plotting something. ‘I wouldn’t call what I’m going “manipulating”. I'm only doing what all other record labels are doing. All I do is get struggling artists in touch with my associates – people who _understand_ music. Dave helped _you_ when you were struggling too, didn't he? Men like him shouldn't be the only ones who get to have a say in what gets to number one in the charts.’

‘Telling someone that their music is shit isn’t helping, Josh – it’s harmful. It makes you question everything. I know, because I’ve _been_ there. Artists don’t thrive when they’re being told to change their sound. Artists thrive when you help them nurture the talents they already _have_.’

Josh rolls his eyes. ‘What, like your students?’

‘Exactly like my students. Why do you think I’m such a good bloody teacher?’

‘Most of the songwriters that pass through these doors aren’t still in school, though.’ Josh waves a hand at his surroundings: his very own desk; and the corridors beyond, each leading to a room with an important figure from the music industry in it. ‘The people who come here are _adults_ – people who can handle it when my associates tell them their music needs work. It’s not _my_ fault that your colleague is so fucking sensitive.’

Gary can feel himself getting angry again. He wants desperately to make things right for Mark, who was so hurt by Josh’s words, but he can’t. He’s a head teacher now, and head teachers need to be sensible, always. He takes another deep breath. ‘D’you know what, Josh, if you want to keep acting like what you’re doing is right, be my guest. I don’t care really.’

‘Good,’ Josh blurts out.

‘I just hope you realise that I’m gonna make sure that none of my friends or students _ever_ end up working with you,’ Gary adds as fiercely as he can. ‘My students will know better than to pin their hopes on people like _you_.’

‘I’ll make sure I let my associates know.’ Josh sounds bored.

Gary makes a punctuated _hum_ with his mouth. ‘See, that’s what I find weirdest, that – the fact that you have associates at all. What were their names again? Keith and Christopher or something? The two A&R reps from _Hopper records?’_ He can see Josh tensing at the mention of the other record label. Dorypol and Hopper have always been the two records labels fighting it out for the number one spot on the charts. ‘I’m not sure how pleased Dave will be when he finds out you’re in cahoots with his _direct competitor_. He’d probably fire you, Dave would. He hates it when his employees aren’t loyal to him. Or did you really think you’d get away with moonlighting?’

Josh gulps. Gary has to fight the urge to gloat. He leans over the reception desk. If Mark were here, he would find Gary’s behaviour utterly arousing.

‘If I were you, Josh, I’d give Dave that call and tell him I’m here before I go looking for him myself.’

Josh’s face has started to resemble a prune. Gary hasn’t threatened to expose his “side-job” outright, but he’s not taking any risks. If Mr Dorypol found out that he’s secretly working with Hopper records, their competitor, he’d get fired on the spot.

Defeated, the secretary picks up the phone and reluctantly dials his boss’s number.

‘I’ll tell Mr Dorypol to meet you here,’ he tells Gary through gritted teeth. Then, in a more cheerful voice, ‘Good evening, Mr Dorypol. I have Gary Barlow here for you. He says he’s got something special planned for his album. Yes, Sir, I have him here in the lobby. No. Yes. Of course, Sir. Thank you.’ He puts down the phone. ‘He’ll be here with you shortly.’

‘Thank you, Josh. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?’

Right on cue, Mr Dorypol himself arrives. Josh swallows the comment he was going to make and pastes a pretty smile on his face.

Mr Dorypol welcomes Gary with a handshake. ‘Gary! It’s good to see you. How was Saint Élise?’

‘Inspiring.’

‘ _Hm._ Good. You went alone, didn’t you?’

‘I did,’ Gary lies, not missing a beat.

‘That’s probably for the best. _Hm._ We don’t want you to get distracted – not while you’re still working on your upcoming record! Are you back at work now? The school, I mean.’

‘I am – I went back to school this morning. There was loads of head teacher stuff to be done.’

‘I see. _Hm._ Interesting. Come, let’s talk in my office.’ They start into the direction Mr Dorypol came from. ‘I hope my secretary treated you well, by the way?’

‘Very well, Dave,’ Gary says deliberately loudly. He flashes Josh a smug grin over his shoulder. The secretary turns red, then purple. ‘We had a _great_ chat, we did.’

‘Good, good. _Hm_. Turn left here . . .’

Gary follows Mr Dorypol into an empty office and sits opposite him at a mahogany desk. Over the next ten minutes, he tells the head of his record deal what he is planning: that he wants to organise a song contest at school, open to all people from the community, and that the winning six songs will all end up on Gary’s next studio record. It’s the best ever idea.

But what if Mr Dorypol doesn’t feel the same?  
  


# |LESSON THIRTY-TWO: THE GENIUS IN THE SHOWER|

The smell of the boys’ supper still lingers in the hallway when Gary comes home later that night, having just met Dave. He takes off his coat, kicks off his shoes and traipses into the living room.

He finds Mark sprawled across the sofa with one large book held in each hand. Three more books are lying face-down on the floor. The living room table, a low rattan table Gary once bought at an antique shop, is covered in pieces of paper. _Homework._

Gary’s visit to Dorypol took him so long that he nearly forgot today was Monday: an ordinary workday. Yesterday, he and Mark were still unpacking their bags and looking through their precious souvenirs; today, they were back in the classroom, teaching their students how to be good artists and songwriters.

Gary’s never been that good at switching from one mode to the other, always messing up his lessons after he’s just been abroad. Meanwhile, Mark’s already back in teaching mode. Visiting Saint Élise has given him a boost of inspiration like no other, searching the house for his old activity books and writing down his own ideas for lessons in the corners of his diary. He wants to make next week’s lessons his best ever. But first, his boyfriend.

‘Hi, Gaz.’ Mark smiles.

‘Hey, mate. You look like you’ve been busy.’ Gary sounds amused. He sinks into the sofa just as Mark retracts his legs and kisses his boyfriend on the mouth. He whispers ‘I’ve missed you’ – even though he’s only been away for a couple of hours.

‘Likewise, Mr Barlow,’ Mark whispers, and he returns the kiss he’s been given, smiling rather.

Gary looks at the mess in the living room. He picks up one of the books that has ended up on the floor. It reads, _5000 writing prompts: an essential book for the creative classroom_. It’s as thick as a bible. Its pages are covered in post-its.

‘Jeez, Mark, where did you find _this_? It could be our brand new doorstop, this.’

Mark rolls his eyes at Gaz. He takes the book from Gary’s hands, polishing the front cover with the front of his jumper. Gary’s eyes dart to the suddenly very exposed part of Mark’s tummy.

‘It’s the first exercise book I ever bought,’ says Mark. He looks at the bible-sized book fondly and puts it on the table as though it is a precious artefact. ‘I still haven’t done all of the exercises from these books, you know. I keep discovering new ones. Next week, I wanna maybe do a picture poem using print-outs of famous paintings.’

‘Sounds fun,’ Gary says, and he means it. ‘I have to say, I envy your creativity sometimes. I still can’t _believe_ the ideas you came up with on Saint Élise. You’re a genius, you know that, don’t you?’

Mark flushes. ‘Oh. I don’t know about that, Gaz.’

‘Mr Dorypol thought so.’

Mark’s heart skips a beat. ‘Y-you managed to talk to him, then?’

‘To Mr Dorypol himself, yes.’

Mark tucks his hair behind his ears and touches his face a couple of times. He feels all of a sudden very nervous, like all his limbs have filled with jelly instead of bones. ‘W-what did he think? D-did he like the idea? Oh – he didn’t hate it, did he? Please tell me Mr Dorypol liked it.’

Gary’s mouth twitches at the corners. The warmth of a blush rises up his neck. ‘He loved it, Mark.’

There’s a small delay between Gary saying the words and the words actually reaching Mark’s brain. He misunderstands completely. ‘Oh, _no_. I knew it. I _knew_ it.’

Mark’s response is automatic; a knee-jerk reaction from always being rejected by men in power like Mr Dorypol and Mr Harrison.

Then the penny drops.

‘Wait. You said Mr Dorypol . . . liked the idea?’

Gary nods a couple of times very quickly. He can no longer contain his excitement and flings his arms around his boyfriend very enthusiastically.

Mark’s body flushes with warmth. He’s not sure if it’s warmth from feeling Gary’s familiar chest pressed against his own or something else – something new. Pride, perhaps. He’s never really had a reason to be proud of himself before, but he reckons it feels a bit like stepping into a hot bath, nice and comfortable.

‘D-does this mean he approved of the idea?’

‘He approved.’ Gary kisses the next best part of Mark’s body he can find: his temple. Mark’s tummy fills with butterflies. ‘And tell you what, he even thought I should give you a raise.’

Mark stops hugging Gary long enough to give his boyfriend a dumbstruck look. ‘You’re _joking_.’

‘I’m not. Mark, we’re going to hold a song contest!’ Gary is beaming. This event _will_ save the music department. He can’t think of an event that’s ever been more important to him.

All the sudden hugs and compliments have made Mark feel quite flustered. He squeezes out of Gary’s arms looking a shade redder than usual. He tucks his messy long hair behind his ears and shakes his head a couple of times. ‘I can’t believe this, Gaz. I thought for sure Mr Dorypol would hate the idea, you know.’

‘As did I. Mind you, he didn’t love _all_ of it,’ Gary adds, the creases of a frown appearing between his eyebrows. In the background, Cookie runs past holding a dog toy, one of those toys that make a funny squeaky noise when a dog bites into it. ‘He didn’t agree with your not wanting an audience.’

‘He thinks there _should_ be an audience?’

‘In the school auditorium, yeah. It’ll be like The X Factor, basically, with the money raised from the ticket sales going to charity. Oh, and hear this – Dave said that _he_ wants to be on a judging panel.’ Gary blows a raspberry.

‘That seems fair. He _is_ your boss, after all. It might be fun!’

‘You say that now, Mark, but Dave Dorypol is one of the most boring people I’ve ever met.’

‘What else did Mr Dorypol say?’ asks Mark.

‘He said the contest should take place this term instead of next term, so in December, I reckon. “Strike while the iron is hot”, he said. Personally I’d rather do the event in spring cos we’d be able to hold the contest at the same time as our open day, but he’s got a point. Some news outlets are still writing about us negatively.’

Mark nods. His eyes flick to a newspaper hidden underneath a pile of homework that he was reading earlier, which featured an article about the Mr Harrison court case. It was scathing. ‘What will you do now?’

‘I’m gonna start with the organisation of the contest next weekend, I think. It shouldn’t take long. As long as we’ve got people taking part, I reckon it’ll be the best event the school has ever seen, this.’

Mark smiles. He touches Gary’s hand with his fingertips. ‘Even better than last year’s summer prom, Gaz?’

‘I think it’ll be up there.’ There’s a twinkle in Gary’s eyes as his mind travels back to the first sight of Mark Owen in a tight waistcoat, swaying to the music. Mark might as well have been the only person on the dancefloor, he looked so beautiful. ‘Will _you_ compete, Mark? You know I’m going to open the contest to students _and_ teachers.’

‘I don’t know yet.’ Mark looks down to see his hand disappearing into Gary’s bigger one. ‘I don’t think I’m confident enough. Meeting Josh two weeks ago has made me lose all my self-esteem.’

‘I actually met him, now that you mention it. _Josh_.’ Gary pronounces the name with anger.

‘Oh.’ Mark feels another twinge of sadness, right next to his heart. ‘Did he – did he mention me, or . . . ?’

‘Not directly,’ Gary says. Mark doesn’t need to know that Josh called him “sensitive”. ‘But I did tell him that if he ever tries “helping” someone I care about again, I’ll let Dave know he’s secretly moonlighting for another record label. He turned quite purple when I told him that. He had no right to tell you that your music is bad. Which it’s not, obviously. I love your music more than I can say – even if you decide never to release it.’

‘Thanks, Gaz.’ The words sound quiet and small, but Mark means them with his entire being. Every time Gary compliments him, another butterfly takes flight in his stomach.

‘Tell you what, though, if you ever get tired of writing songs, you could always get a job as a creative director,’ says Gary. ‘Did I mention Dave said I should give you a raise for coming up with the contest?’

Mark snorts. ‘I don’t think teachers can _get_ a raise.’

‘True. But I can give you something else.’ Gary whispers something naughty into Mark’s ear then, making Mark burst out in a fit of giggles.

‘Surely you’re not serious?’ says Mark, laughing, although he doesn’t entirely hate the idea. He very much loves it, but he’s not going to tell Gary as much. Not yet. ‘I don’t think this is what Mr Dorypol meant, you know.’

‘I’m sure it was open to interpretation. And of course I’m _serious_.’ Gary’s eyes flick at the corridor that leads to the bathroom. ‘I was going to take a shower anyway – you might as well join me. Unless you’d rather spend all night reading those boring exercise books of yours?’

Gary picks up one of Mark’s precious exercises books, glances at the back cover, makes a face, deliberately yawns, then throws the book on the sofa over his right shoulder. He knows the easiest way to get into Mark’s pants is by teasing him. ‘So boring.’

‘My exercise books are _not_ boring, Gaz.’ Mark can feel his cheeks burning under Gary’s teasing look. A butterfly stretches out its wings in his tummy when he sees Gary’s hand creeping closer towards him on the sofa. ‘They’re _very_ interesting.’

‘Just as interesting as me?

Mark’s momentarily disarmed when Gary squeezes his knee, making his legs go like jelly all over again. ‘ _Much_ more interesting,’ he lies, because he knows Gary loves teasing just as much as he does. Perhaps even more. 

‘Really? Your exercise books are more interesting than me, are they?’ Gary smirks. He tilts his head and kisses Mark’s neck several times, making Mark radiate heat. He leaves a hickey. He touches the red skin with his fingertips before dragging his fingers up Mark’s cheek, not stopping until he reaches Mark’s lips. ‘I can think of a few exercises we could do in the shower, Mark. _Proper_ exercises. Not the boring ones from your books . . .’

Gary pushes his finger into Mark’s slowly parting mouth and watches as Mark sucks obediently, Gary’s teasing quite forgotten. Mark’s cheeks pulse with the heat of a blush.

‘What’d you think, eh? You want me to fuck you in the shower and give you that raise for being such a genius?’

Mark nods a couple of times. _Yes_. He puts away the books he was reading. They head to the bathroom together, undressing each other as they go. A trail of clothes follows them to the bathroom. A jumper. A pair of trousers. A sock. Boxers. Another pair of trousers.

They stumble through the bathroom door kissing. Imagine the biggest bathroom you’ve ever seen, but even bigger. Imagine marble floors and a shower so majestic that it might as well be a waterfall. Imagine golden taps. A large mirror. Soap dispensers filled with lavish soap that smells of five-star hotels. Then imagine Mark and Gary, not quite naked, but getting there.

Mark hasn’t so much closed the door with his foot when he’s caught by the waist and he’s pushed up against a wall. The shower cubicle. It’s cold: colder than anything he ever touched on Saint Élise. On the island, the mornings were hot. Warm sand would cascade from Mark’s splayed fingers on the beach.

The cold glass pushing against Mark’s back is a stark reminder that they’re no longer on the island. They’re in their penthouse, and Gary has just called him a genius.

More clothes follow. Mark’s black boxers go. Gary sinks on his knees on the tiled floor and takes Mark’s hardening prick inside his mouth. He bobs his head up and down slowly. Mark begs for more. He pushes his short fingers inside Gary’s hair, pulling him closer; feeling the back of Gary’s throat against his hard prick. He tilts back his head – eyes closed, mouth wide open, the most outrageous moans leaving his lips – and prepares for that familiar wave to wash over him. ‘Oh my God, Gaz – deeper. Oh fuck. Oh _God_.’ And he ejaculates into Gary’s throat, shouting rather.

Mark doesn’t get the time to recover. Cum dribbles down the tip of his cock as Gary gets up from the floor then and takes him by the hand into the shower cubicle.

‘Let’s get you cleaned up, you dirty slag,’ says Gary, and he spanks Mark twice.

Gary turns on the tap. A stream of water washes over Mark’s entire body, washing away the dirt. He doesn’t get the time to enjoy it; Gary has already pushed him against another wall face-forward – the inside of the cubicle, with its tiny grey titles. The water now only reaches the back of his head, making his hair stick to his face in wet clumps.

The glass inside of the cubicle starts to steam up just as Gary starts fucking him from behind with his prick. Gary gets the full force of the water. It’s streaming down his body; flattening the hairs on his chest. He’s got both hands on Mark’s sides. His nails leave half-moons on his lover’s skin as he pushes in and out hard. Every now and then, he gives his boyfriend a good spanking while calling him the most outrageous words.

Mark can barely stay upright. His forehead is pressed against the wall. His hands hold on to the slippery material of the little grey titles as well as he can. His legs hurt.

Then Gary digs his fingers into his hair and starts pulling his hair from behind (whilst Gary’s teeth sink into his neck), and the pain turns into pleasure. ‘Harder,’ he moans, and he gets the opposite. ‘Oh my God – slower, slower,’ he begs, and Gary only fucks him faster.

Gary changes the position of the showerhead then. The full force of the water starts streaming onto Mark’s body. The water is hot; just the perfect temperature. Thick streams of hot water run down the curve of his hardening prick, and he wishes more than ever he could come again. ‘Oh, Gaz – jerk me off, please.’

‘I know something better than that.’

Gary stops for a second to squeeze soap into his hands. He slathers it all over Mark’s body.

Mark looks down to see Gary covering his prick in thick, fluffy bubbles of soap. He’s so enthralled by seeing his prick disappearing in tufts of bubbles that he doesn’t quite realise that Gary has stopped fucking him. Gary pushes his cock back into his sore hole without so much of a warning, and Mark starts seeing stars.

‘Oh my God – Oh my God – Oh my _God_.’ The words keep streaming from Mark’s mouth as he pushes his arse out just so. Gary keeps fucking and jerking him off at the same time. They’re both absolutely covered in soap.

Gary is beginning to shake. His movements are becoming equally shaky. ‘I’m coming, Mark. Oh _Jesus_.’

‘Come inside,’ Mark hisses. He closes his eyes. He feels a thick warmth trickling inside of him. ‘Oh my God – _Gaz_.’

More warmth follows. Gary comes loudly and forcefully, digging his nails into Mark’s hips as he comes in hot spurts inside of Mark’s arse.

Again – _again –_ Mark wishes – but only for a second – that he and Gary were married. It’s a thought that lasts only a second – for Gary finishing him off inside his fist again soon makes him forget it –, but still.

He wishes they were married.

After their shower, the boys dry each other off and get dressed into their comfy pyjamas. They both try getting some work done on the sofa (Mark, reading “boring” activity books; Gary, making a list of potential song contest judges), but the excitement of the evening soon makes them doze off. They dream of showers and wedding rings.   
  


# |LESSON THIRTY-THREE: THE POSTERS IN THE HALLWAYS|

Over the next few days, posters for the contest start appearing in the hallways all over the school. There are: posters in the corridors, posters in the staff room, in the library, in the computer lab on the first floor, in Rob’s support teacher’s office next to the coffee machine, and, finally, in every classroom there is. Reminders of the upcoming contest follow Mark everywhere, and therefore, too, does the pressure to compete.

There is still that balance of two choices inside his head: the choice between competing and not competing; observing and taking part. He _wants_ to compete, but he doesn’t think he should. After all, aren’t his students more deserving of the recognition? Ought he not to help his first-year Songwriting students hone their skills instead of flaunting his own?

He didn’t become a teacher just so he can show off; he became a teacher so he can _help_. Claiming one of the six precious spots on Gary’s album wouldn’t be a help to anyone. Not to mention the fact that he was very recently told by two A&R people that his music is shit.

On the other hand, he’s clearly not the only adult who’s got an eye on Gary’s album. When Mark entered the staff room that morning, he could see Mr Norton busily writing three songs on his laptop. And when he later walked past Mr Steven’s classroom, he thought he could hear the saxophonist humming a brand new song to himself. It’s not just students who are distractedly trying to write the best song they’ve ever written.

But none of them are shagging Gary Barlow.

What if Mark did compete, and he won a spot on Gary’s album, and people later found out he and Gary are an item? People would say the contest was fixed. Or worse, they’d tell Gary to resign from his head teacher position, which would then lead to the record label dropping him, which would then lead to Gary never being able to release another song ever again. He doesn’t want to have that on his conscience. 

Still Mark continues to write. Just in case. He writes during his lessons. He writes in the school library. He gets ideas for songs in the most inconvenient places, like the school restrooms or in the queue at Tesco’s. Sometimes he even writes after he and Gary have just made love and Gary’s getting dressed. Mark may not know for sure whether he wants to compete, but that doesn’t mean the songs won’t stop coming.

One morning, Wednesday, Mark reads back the five songs he’s written since the posters started appearing in the school corridors. His face flushes with embarrassment. The songs he’s written all have a common theme. _Marriage._ Mark hadn’t intended to write five songs about marriage, but here he is, reading through five songs about marriage.

He wonders what it says about him. It says that he wants to get married, of course. That much is obvious. But it also does something else. It shows a change in Mark’s music. Mark’s traditionally always written sad songs about depression and anxiety, but ever since he’s been with Gaz – who traditionally writes uplifting songs –, he’s only written positive things. Songs about loving life and making the most of a bad situation, that sort of stuff.

Does this mean his music is beginning to match Gary’s, and if so, ought he to compete after all? He still doesn’t know. No matter what he does, the scales in his head remain equally balanced: competing or not competing; observing or taking part.   
  


# |LESSON THIRTY-FOUR: KICKED OUT OF THE LIBRARY|

Already, Mark has run out of activity books to use for his lessons. Embarrassingly, he had to re-use an old exercise for his second-year Songwriting students this morning. With activity books for teachers being very expensive (the average book costing 50 quid), Mark has decided to pay a visit to the school library at the end of his workday.

The moment you enter the library (a very imposing box-sized building in the middle of campus), you are greeted with a list of rules on the door, such as: “talking is not permitted unless it is about books”, “no laughing even when a book is funny”, “sneeze inside your elbow, not on the books” and “return books to their appropriate places”. This makes for a rather stressful visit, for Mark has a habit of talking to himself, laughing out loud when books are funny and getting lost.

Other than that, visiting the library is quite nice really. Mark’s always thought visiting the school library is a bit like being inside a wedding cake. In the middle, you have a round reading room, and all around it – much like the layers of a cake – there are galleries: different floors, each filled with box-sized rooms and little nooks and crannies you can get lost in. It even has escalators that zig-zag between each gallery at an angle.

The escalators are the only modern feature the library has. The rest of the interior is dainty and old; dusty and creaky. The bookcases in the library are leftovers from when the school used to be a warehouse, and the carpets and chairs in the central reading room all look as if they were stolen from an OAP’s living room. The library even _smells_ old – which is funny, because the library was built only recently. Mark thinks the place is absolutely magical.

Well, _almost_ magical. As much as he hates to admit it, he doesn’t like the librarian that much, who wears ugly pink glasses in the shape of a butterfly. She has the unique ability of giving you the feeling that she’s always watching you. She once told Mark off for laughing too loudly at a picture book, and ever since Mark has been terribly afraid of her. Mark tiptoes past her desk, smiles at her wearily (she does not smile back) and takes the escalator to the first floor.

Mark comes here quite often to plan his lessons when Gary is away, so he knows exactly where he needs to be. He walks past a section dedicated entirely to thesauruses and dictionaries, turns left into a small reading room, ignores a poster of the upcoming song contest stapled to a wooden beam and faces a book-case filled with an eclectic mix of references and activity books.

He breathes a sigh of relief. More books have been added since he last visited. He carefully scans the book spines. ‘Let’s see, what looks interesting? _Oh_ , a book about idioms! That’s nice.’

Just as those last two words leave his mouth, the librarian shows up as though she literally just appeared in the room like a ghost. She puts her finger to her lips and points at a list of rules on the wall. Mark nods and blinks, and the librarian is gone.

Mark shivers. He pinches his lips shut and scans the shelf again. He sees: _Idioms for Idiots, Teaching Writing in Secondary School, 100 Creative Activities You Can Do Online, Flipping the Classroom: How Not to Flip Students Off, Worksheets for Business English, Teaching Poetry_ and even a book that contains over fifty classroom activities that all have to do with sonnets.

He reaches out for the book called _100 Creative Activities You Can Do Online._ He can’t quite reach; the book is on the upper shelf, and Mark is very short. He looks for something to give him more height, like a stool or a chair. He does not find a stool _or_ a chair.

He awkwardly reaches out for the book by standing on tiptoes. The book won’t come nearer. If only Gaz were here, then he could give him a knee-up.

Mark tries once more to grab the book, but sadly he’s still as short as ever. He’s going to have to ask someone for help. Someone like . . .

‘Rob?’

‘Mark?’ Rob has suddenly stumbled into the _references and activity books_ section. He looks lost. ‘Is this not the self-help section, Mark?’

Mark shakes his head. He’s too scared to talk in case the librarian shows up again.

Rob does not seem to care. He talks as loudly as if he were at the local Starbucks. ‘Seriously? I would _swear_ the scary librarian told me it was right here . . . Have you ever tried talking to her, Mark? She’s fucking scary. Oh _well_. I suppose I didn’t _really_ need the book, anyway. I mean, who needs a self-help book about relationships? Not _me_.’ And he starts laughing in a way that sounds slightly hysterical.

In the background, Mark can hear the recognizable sound of the librarian’s heels on the creaky wooden floor. His body floods with panic. ‘ _Rob. Shush. The librarian is coming._ ’

Rob swallows his laugh. Right on cue, the librarian shows up as though summoned. Mark grabs a book from the nearest shelf to create the impression he has been reading.

Rob pinches his lips shut and stares at the ceiling. His nose is twitching. The library is very dusty, and a sneeze is coming.

The librarian makes a punctuated hum with her mouth. ‘I thought I heard someone laughing, Sirs?’

Mark shakes his head. ‘It – it was the floor, Mrs Librarian, Madam,’ and he tries out his foot on the wooden floor beneath him. Thankfully, it creaks.

‘Very well,’ says the librarian. And off she goes again.

When the librarian’s footsteps have finally faded, Rob lets out the sneeze he was holding. It’s so loud that the sound reverberates in the ceiling lamp.

‘Fucking hell.’ Rob blows his nose with a used napkin. ‘Told you she was scary. I can’t even sneeze in peace. Anyway, how was Saint Élise?’

Mark gets a hot flush. He wasn’t expecting that question so soon. Now it’s _his_ turn to laugh hysterically. He leans against the bookcase quasi-casually. ‘It was nice, yeah.’

‘Just nice or “ _nice”_ nice?’ whispers Rob.

‘You know. “ _Nice”_ nice.’ Mark fumbles with his hair so that Rob won’t be able to see him blushing.

‘Gaz told me you came up with the idea for the song contest on the beach. Is that true?’

Mark nods infinitesimally.

‘Awesome,’ Rob says a touch too loudly. He sniffs. In the background, there’s the familiar click-clack of heels on wood. ‘I bet it’s gonna be brilliant. I wonder if colleagues are allowed to take part. Are they allowed? Do you know?’

Just as Mark is about to say as much, the librarian walks past again. She stops when she sees Mark and Rob talking casually, tugs down her ugly pink glasses so that they rest on the tip of her long nose and puts her hands on her hips. He clears her throat loudly.

Mark goes very pale. Another sneeze starts tickling Rob’s nose.

‘I _knew_ the floor wasn’t creaking. You’re _conversing!_ In a library! Shame on you, Sirs.’ The scary librarian points a long-nailed finger at the list of rules. ‘Rule one: no chatting unless it is about books. I assume that you were talking about books and not the weather?’

Mark remembers with a flush of embarrassment that he was here to find a new activity book. ‘ _Um_. Actually, Mrs Librarian, Madam, I – we _were_ talking, not about books, to be honest, but before that I _was_ trying to grab a book off a shelf, except – except I couldn’t _reach_.’ He looks longingly at _100 Creative Activities You Can Do Online._

The librarian narrows her eyes. ‘Very nice try, Mr Owen.’

‘It’s true!’ The words leave Mark’s mouth more loudly than he’d intended.

The librarian gasps in a genuinely affronted manner. She puts her hand to her chest, her big eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets. ‘The books have _ears_ , Mr Owen. They are _sensitive_. If you want to talk at the top of your voice, you’ll have to do it outside.’

‘But _Madam_ ,’ Mark pleads. He’s never been kicked out of a library before. The situation is so ridiculous that he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry – his body has filled with adrenaline, and he’s scared to look at Rob in case he starts laughing. 

‘It is the rules.’ The librarian holds up her hand in front of Rob’s face just as he is about to sneeze. The sneeze stops in Rob’s nose. ‘Rule seven: no damaging books with loud sneezes. And you call yourself teachers! _Outrageous_.’

The librarian promptly kicks the two of them out.

Five minutes later, Mark and Rob find themselves stood outside the library, without the books they had set out to borrow. It’s drizzling. The sky is a wintry grey. There are no students on campus save from two young girls making their way to the library via the gravel path. Mark’s body is rushing with adrenaline.

It ought to be a rather dramatic event, being thrown out of a library, but the teachers’ first reaction is to burst out laughing when they catch each other’s eye. Mark sounds like a hysterical goose; Rob, like a hyena with a sore throat. He keeps picturing the face of the librarian, her glasses askew as she dragged the two of them out of the building.

‘Well, that was fucking weird.’ Rob says once the laughter has faded out. ‘I can’t remember the last time I got in trouble for something at work. Am I a bad teacher for saying I kind of enjoyed that?’

‘ _Oh,_ as did I!’ Mark is beaming. He didn’t realise being thrown out of a library would give him such a flush of adrenaline. ‘I think I’m beginning to understand why some of our students are such rule-breakers now.’ And he makes a face as though he’s ashamed to admit it.

‘I’m sorry you couldn’t get your book, though.’

‘I’m sorry you couldn’t get yours. Self-help, you said?’

‘Something like that.’ Rob turns up the collar of his coat; it’s cold outside. ‘Remember when I texted you when you were on Saint Élise and I told you I needed to talk to you about Jay?’

‘Oh yeah. I’ve been meaning to ask you about that.’

‘Well, I’m thinking about asking Jay to move in with me.’

‘Seriously?’ Mark’s eyes express cautious delight.

‘Yeah, mate.’

‘That’s _brilliant_. I’m so proud of you, Rob.’ And he embraces Rob like a friend. ‘Why the books, though?’

‘Because I have no idea how to live with someone,’ Rob admits. They slowly walk back to school across the gravel path. The path cuts right through the grass field outside the school. On each side, there are trees and wooden benches. During summer, the field is always packed with students. Now, it is empty. ‘What if I get it wrong, Mark? What if we fall out? Will I have to wear a different pair of trousers every day? I have no idea how any of this stuff works.’

‘Just be yourself,’ says Mark. ‘It’s what I did with Gaz.’

‘ _You_ moved in with _him,_ though. Into his penthouse. I just have a small flat. A _flat_ , Mark. I don’t even have a balcony.’

‘But you’ll have Jay. And Jay will have _you_. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?’

‘Says the guy who shagged his boyfriend on his private roof.’

Mark almost trips over a loose pebble.

‘I’m just sayin’,’ says Rob, once Mark has recovered from almost-tripping-over-a-loose-pebble. ‘If you and Gaz ever fall out, you can just hide from each other in different bedrooms. There’s no hidin’ in _my_ flat.’

‘I think the point of living together is that you talk to each other instead of hiding when things maybe aren’t going that well,’ Mark thinks out loud. Two pink spots have appeared on his cheeks. ‘You’re supposed to communicate. I guess that sometimes means having to make compromises and things like that, but – well, that’s just the way it is, isn’t it? Living together isn’t always fun, you know –’ he adds, remembering when he and Gary rowed a couple of weeks ago, ‘but most of the time, it is. Especially when you really love each other. When are you going to ask him?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Well, I’m sure Jay will say yes,’ Mark says brightly. ‘I’m sure it’ll be – _er_. . .’

Mark rather forgets what he wanted to say. They’re just walked past a massive billboard with Gary’s face on it, slap bang in the middle of campus. It’s an ad for the upcoming song contest, of course.

Mark doesn’t know where to look. The billboard is so big that it blocks out almost the entire school. It’s the same photo that’s being used on all the posters, but twenty times bigger. Usually, the billboard is used to advertise open days.

‘Gosh, it’s – it’s big, isn’t it?’ Mark’s eyes have gone as large as saucers. He can’t stop staring at one part of the billboard in particular.

‘You’re talking about the billboard, I hope.’

‘Of – of course,’ Mark stammers. ‘It’s just – well, it’s a bit _much_ , isn’t it?’

‘It makes you think, though, doesn’t it?’

‘About what?’

‘About competin’. I _was_ goin’ to ask, before the librarian showed up. Will _you_ take part? I know you’ve been thinking about getting back into the _industry_.’

Mark shakes his head. ‘I don’t know yet. I do _want_ to compete, cos, like you said, I do want to write songs again, you know, but what with me being a teacher and my own involvement with Gaz . . . it’s all a bit complicated, isn’t it? Not to mention the fact that all the songs I’ve written recently are all – _well_. They’re a bit unsuitable. You know, for the general public.’

‘Unsuitable how? Unsuitable as in, they’re all about – you know?’ And Rob makes a gesture with his fist.

Mark flushes. ‘It’s not _that_. It’s more – it’s the theme of the song. It’s personal. Very.’ He bites his lip. He looks for a second uncertain as to whether or not he wants to share his songs. Then he takes Rob by the hand to the nearest park bench, where they are provided with a perfect view of both the school and the billboard; both perfectly imposing.

They sit on the bench, which is a little wet. A bit creaky, it’s the same bench where Rob and Gary once met to talk “discreetly” about Mark’s suspension. Next to it, there is a now-leafless tree that usually provides cover from the sun. Students from the Fashion and Textiles course have covered the tree trunk in colourful knitwork.

Mark looks at Rob seriously. ‘Promise you won’t tell anyone what I’m about to show you?’

Rob nods a couple of times. He can’t help but feel a little excited. He loves secrets as much as he does conspiracies. ( _Fun_ conspiracies, mind you, like whether the American government is hiding aliens, or whether the Loch Ness monster actually exists. Less fun are the conspiracies Howard believes in, which we will not mention here.)

Mark carefully removes a red leather journal from the inner pocket of his coat. He tenderly runs his hands across the front cover, hesitates (for he’s never shared his music with Rob before), takes a deep breath, then hands Rob the journal. ‘Have a look at the last five songs.’

Rob opens the journal on the last page Mark has worked on. All the songs have been written by hand, with crosses and stripes in the places where Mark tried to correct a word. There are a lot of spelling mistakes, which means it takes Rob quite a long time to read it all.

Regardless, it’s obvious what the songs are about. Reading the journal from right to left, Rob’s mouth opens a little wider every time he turns a page. Then he gets to the first lyrics Mark wrote since he and Gaz returned to England five days ago, and his jaw practically hits the ground. He lets out a loud squeaky sound that definitely would get him kicked out of a library.

‘ _Mate_.’ It’s the only thing he can say. He keeps flipping between pages in Mark’s journal, a wild look in his eyes.

Mark looks away embarrassed. He wishes he’d chosen a bench in the shadow of the school; that way, his blush might not have been that obvious. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’

‘I wouldn’t say “bad”, mate. More like, _what the fuck?_ ’ Rob points madly at one of the pages in Mark’s journal. ‘All of these songs are about marriage, Mark! _Marriage!_ Since when do you want to get married?’

Rob can’t believe his eyes. The lyrics are a total bombshell, for he and Mark have only spoken about marriage this _one_ time, and never again. It was right after Mark and Gary had had their row a couple of weeks ago.

They didn’t talk about marriage ever again. Rob should have known by looking into Mark’s dreamy eyes then that he wanted to get married, but of course Rob never asked. Wanting to get married was _Gary’s_ thing, not Mark’s.

Until now.

‘Why?’ Rob asks.

‘Why what?’ Mark shuffles uncomfortably on the bench in front of the billboard with Gary’s face on it.

‘Why do you want to get married?’ Rob points at one of the songs in Mark’s journal. ‘It’s all you’ve written about!’

Mark shrugs. He’s never really given it that much thought, to be honest. Ever since the idea of getting married entered his brain, it hasn’t left. It’s there everywhere he goes, enveloping him with the warmth of a cloak. He wants it because it seems like the natural next step; a natural progression, like spring turning into summer.

‘I can’t really explain it other than that I just really want it,’ Mark says. His face resembles a tomato. ‘I want to make us official. I want the world to know that we love each other and – and show everyone how – how special we are. How much I love him.’

‘Okay. So why didn’t you tell _me?_ ’

Mark becomes suddenly very interested in a loose blade of grass underneath the wooden bench. ‘I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,’ he mumbles, and he sniffs.

‘A big _deal? Mate._ You want to get _married_. That’s the biggest deal there is. “Life changin’” big. What if I’m actually an expert in marriage, and you never bother asking me for help?’

‘You’re not, though,’ Mark says (still very interested in the ground).

‘True, but I _could_ be. I have a lot of secret talents, Mark. If you need someone to fold napkins for your wedding reception and stuff, I’m your man. I could help you pick out the outfit for your wedding night!’

‘Thanks, but me and Gaz aren’t married yet, are we?’ Mark absent-mindedly runs his fingers along the grain of the wooden bench.

Although he is generally an upbeat person, Mark does have a tendency of feeling a bit down whenever his brain fancies it. It happens when he is least expecting it, and it is happening again now, even though he and Rob just spent give minutes laughing about being thrown out of a library. His moods are as unpredictable as the British weather, which has decided that it quite fancied another drizzle.

‘I don’t even know if Gary _wants_ to get married.’

Mark looks all of a sudden very sad. Rob has to bury what he knows about Gary very deep inside of him.

Rob knows, of course, that Gary has tried twice to propose and that he failed both times. There isn’t a single man in the universe who wants to get married more than Gary Barlow. Gary is a master event-planner, and yet he keeps failing at kick-starting the most important event of all.

It’s so unfair that Mark doesn’t know about it. How on Earth are you supposed to propose to someone if you’re not filled with the heart-stopping hope that your loved one will one day say yes?

‘Mark. Stop staring at the grass and listen to me.’ Rob places Mark’s journal on the wooden bench. He takes Mark’s hands and squeezes them very tightly. He tries to reassure Mark in the only was he knows: by doing a lot of talking in a way that barely makes sense.

Sadly, this also means lying to Mark. Just a little bit. After all, he can’t have Mark finding out that Gary has been trying to propose. ‘I’ve known Gaz for a very, very long time, and I think it’s quite obvious that getting married is quite high on his to-do list. Very obvious. Well, maybe not at the _top_ of his list. He probably still wants to do a joint tour with Elton John. But it’s up there.

‘Now, Gaz has never mentioned marrying _you_ specifically, all right,’ Rob goes on to lie, ‘but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it. Maybe he does want it! He probably does, except he’s never told _me_. Maybe he’s trying to propose to you at this very moment! Then again, maybe not. No-one knows. I’ve a feeling he wouldn’t say no to you, though. You know what I mean? A feeling. Right here.’ And Rob pokes Mark in his left side, hard, making Mark yelp then laugh.

Mark rubs his side. He looks visibly brighter. ‘Thanks, Rob.’

‘I mean it. If you want to get married, just propose to him with one of your songs or something. If you never try, you’ll never know, right? Why do you think I’m gonna ask Jay to move in with me?’

In the background, there’s the sound of the school bell ringing. Students start leaving the school in their dozens.

‘I suppose what I’m trying to say is that you just need to _try_ , Mark. That’s all there is to it. Just try, mate. The same goes for the contest, by the way,’ Rob adds, waving a hand at the billboard with Gary’s face on it. ‘Just take part and see. What’s the worst thing that could happen?’

‘Total embarrassment in front of my students and peers?’

‘Sounds like just an average day of teaching to me, mate.’

_He’s actually got a point there_ , Mark thinks, as more students walk out of the building. Teaching _is_ just a sequence of embarrassing moments. He supposes that if he can survive making a fool of himself in front of his students every single day, lesson after lesson, he can survive taking part in the contest too.

Slowly, the scales inside his head – the balance between watching and taking part – change positions again.

As for proposing, that’s something he’ll have to think about a little longer. Proposing to your lover isn’t something you can do on a whim; it has to be thoroughly planned, like one of Mark’s lessons. It has to work the first time, or else he’ll never get another chance again. You only get the one chance. That’s it.

But how would he actually do it? Could he combine proposing with the contest in some way? He _has_ written quite a lot of songs about marriage. If he sent in one of his songs, Gary might realise he wants to get married and the proposal will happen naturally.

It’s something he’ll have to think about later. For it has started raining while the sun is trying to break through the clouds. A rainbow appears, and Mark tells himself it’s a sign.   
  


# |LESSON THIRTY-FIVE: ASKING JAY|

Friday night. Rob should not have tried cooking. The living room has filled with smoke and cooking smells. The kitchen counter is a mess. Rob’s apron is covered in pasta sauce.

Worse still, Jay’s supposed to come over in less than half an hour for what was supposed to be a special date night, and Rob still hasn’t finished any of his dishes. He’s failed to make both his pasta main and his starter – burnt garlic bread.

He feels like a right idiot. Asking Jay to come live with him was always going to be rather difficult, and of course these failed dishes aren’t going to help. Jason Orange is an actual functioning adult who knows his way around a kitchen, and Rob is not. Rob can’t even make _garlic bread_.

Anxiously, Rob paces up and down the messy kitchen. He doesn’t know what to do. Jay’s coming any minute now, and he was promised a feast. Rob can’t even offer him a drink; he forgot to buy Jay’s favourite green tea, and all the shops have closed.

To Rob, this is a disaster in the making. He might as well call Jay now and tell him that date night is off.

It wouldn’t be the first time Rob has cancelled date night. Even though he loves Jay very much, there are still moments when Rob’s anxiety gets the best of him and he doesn’t feel like meeting anyone. He’s already lost count of the number of times Rob has bailed on Jay. Why Jay keeps on seeing him, he does not know.

Just as Rob’s about to tip his failed dishes into the bin, the doorbell rings. Rob’s body flushes with panic. Jay’s here!

Rob almost falls over himself getting to the door. He runs a grease-covered hand through his hair, then opens the door. His heart skips a beat like he’s missed a step going down a staircase.

Jay’s shown up to date night wearing a suit. An actual suit: a tight black blazer with a white dress shirt underneath and matching black trousers. His shoes are so shiny that Rob can see himself in them. Even Jay’s hair looks perfect.

With a shock, Rob realises that he’s still wearing his pasta-covered apron. Underneath, he’s wearing a simple white T-shirt and old jogging trousers. His mood dips. _I’m a fucking mess_ , he thinks miserably, just as he notices that he’s wearing two different socks.

‘Jay – I’m sorry – I . . . I didn’t have time to get dressed.’ It’s not the most enthusiastic of welcomes, but Rob doesn’t know what else to say. He reluctantly lets Jay into his hallway and closes the door with a soft thud. He feels miserable. ‘I look fucking terrible.’

‘Nonsense,’ says Jay, who always knows exactly what to say. ‘I simply overdressed. Look at me, I look like I’m attending a parents’ evening!’

Jay starts taking off his jacket in Rob’s hallway, revealing a casual white dress shirt underneath that makes him look rather dapper. He hangs his jacket on a clothes peg in Rob’s hallway. ‘There. That’s better. We look like we’re attending the same event now. And I always think you look beautiful no matter what, Rob.’

To demonstrate, Jay kisses his boyfriend firmly on the mouth. His lips are so warm and _soft_ that Rob almost turns into a puddle of goo.

Rob forgets how he was feeling just a minute ago. His hands grip Jay's waist, drawing him closer. His warm hands slide underneath Jay’s jacket, caressing his back through a thin dress shirt, forgetting for a second that he’s still wearing an apron covered in pasta sauce.

It takes Rob three full seconds of snogging until he finally realises his mistake. He pulls away, a stricken expression in his eyes. ‘Jay, I’m so sorry.’

Jay smiles uncertainly. He rather enjoyed that kiss and Rob touching his back. ‘Sorry about what?’

Rob points a finger at Jay’s white dress shirt. Or rather, what’s left of it. The garment is covered in pasta sauce.

Jay looks down. He looks as though he’s just committed a murder. ‘I see. Well. That’s unfortunate, isn’t it? Oh, don’t look so _sad_ , Rob. It’s just a shirt. Honestly, it doesn’t matter. That said, you don’t have a jumper I could borrow, do you?’

Rob ends up loaning Jay a silly jumper with a cartoon alien on it. It’s a rather hideous jumper really, but Jay looks good in anything. (Besides, it meant Rob got to see Jay getting dressed, which is always rather nice. He may not necessarily like having sex with men, but that doesn’t mean Rob doesn’t feel a little thrill in his tummy whenever he sees Jay’s gorgeous body and those arms that are perfect for cuddling into. He thinks everything Jay does is beautiful.)

With Jay’s sartorial disaster taken care of, it’s time to care of another: the kitchen. It looks like a bomb has gone off. Pasta sauce covers the kitchen counter. There are knives, spoons and forks everywhere you look. There’s even some pasta on the tiled walls. A cookbook is lying face-down on the floor

‘I see you were trying to delight me with your culinary prowess, Rob.’ Jay inspects the pan that’s still on the stove. It’s filled with clumps of sticky spaghetti. It looks rather inedible. ‘I didn’t realise you enjoyed cooking.’

‘I don’t,’ Rob says miserably. ‘I wanted to _impress_ you.’

Jay looks up from the contents of the pot. ‘Impress me? Why?’

Rob doesn’t speak. He fumbles with the front of his apron. He’s never felt more like an idiot. He honestly doesn’t know what he was thinking, trying to cook a proper meal when he can’t even cook a bloody egg.

Jay senses that something is bothering Rob. He pushes the subject further. ‘Why would you go through the trouble of cooking for me when you get no pleasure from it? You know I don’t mind getting takeaways. Besides, I’m a pretty brilliant cook, if I do say so myself. If you want us to eat together, just ask _me_ to do the cooking every time we meet up.’

‘That’s the thing, though.’ Rob sniffs. His heart is beating quickly. His hands feel clammy, and he’s shaking, and he prays that Jay won’t notice. ‘I don’t want to us to get takeaways “every now and then”, Jay, and I don’t want you to do the cooking “every time we meet up”. I want us to have a proper dinner every single day. At my house. Together.’

Jay’s smile fades only a little. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m sayin’ that I put on this fuckin’ apron because I was goin’ to ask you to move in with me,’ Rob blurts out, ‘except I’ve ruined dinner, and now I’ve ruined askin’ you to move in with me too. _Surprise!_ ’

Jay looks slightly taken aback. He is normally so poised, so calm, so perfectly able of handling everything the world throws at him – but now he is not. Like Rob, his heart is beating fast. His mind has filled with a cacophony of different thoughts and ideas. He likes seeing the world from different perspectives, but now Rob has rather turned his world upside-down.

‘You really want me to move in with you, Rob?’

Rob nods. ‘All I wanted was to get this one thing right, Jay. I was gonna cook this amazin’ dinner for you and ask you to move in with me afterwards, but we can’t even eat _pasta_. Look at it! It’s the worst pasta I’ve ever seen. _I’m_ the worst. I feel like I keep failin’ at being a proper boyfriend.’ He rubs his nose. Tears are pricking at the back of his eyes. ‘No wonder you don’t want to move in with me.’

‘I never said that.’

‘What?’

‘I never said I don’t want to move in with you.’ Jay smiles uncertainly. ‘Rob, I want nothing else. I thought that was obvious from my being here so often?’

Rob shakes his head. He’s lost his voice.

‘In that case, allow me to tell you, just in case.’ Jay takes Rob’s clammy hands in his and squeezes them tightly. Rob feels a flush creeping up the back of his neck. Jay’s rehearsed these words, so they come easily. ‘I’ve been dreaming of living with you ever since we fell in love, Rob, and I don’t care if living with you involves a lifetime of ruined dinners. I don’t care if it means I’ll end up with pasta on my shirt every day. We have made our relationship work so far, and I have every faith that we will continue to do so – no matter our mistakes. After all, have I not come here nearly every week since we started seeing each other? I can’t think of someone I want to move in with more.

‘Also, I’m a really good lover, aren’t I?’ Jay adds, almost as an afterthought. Every now and then, there are glimpses of Jay having the most massive ego. ‘There’s no way this will go wrong. It can’t! We’re too good together.’

Rob blinks. Sometimes Jay uses such pretty words that it takes his brain a while to process everything. In the background, he can hear the clock in his kitchen ticking away. A car drives past underneath his living room window. His dog is barking. ‘Does this mean you’re saying yes to moving in with me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Seriously?’ Rob can hardly believe it.

‘Seriously, Rob.’ Jay smiles. ‘Why do you think I showed up wearing a suit? I was going to ask you the exact same thing, except, well, I’m afraid you rather got there before me. _Oh_ , c’mere, will you? I love you, Mr Williams.’

Jay envelops Rob in a warm hug that smells of expensive aftershave and pasta sauce, and Rob spontaneously bursts out in tears of happiness. He was so worried about the evening going wrong that he hadn’t quite rehearsed what he’d do if the evening actually went _right._

Afterwards, Rob will say that this was one of the most magical evenings he’s ever had. Yes, the food was ruined, and the kitchen still reeked of pasta sauce for three days afterwards, but it didn’t really matter. Jay had said yes to moving in with him, wearing one of Rob’s most hideous jumpers, and Rob couldn’t feel happier.

How he and Jay will live together exactly, he doesn’t yet know. He imagines Jay will probably do all the cooking while Rob cluelessly watches from a distance. There will be times when they can’t agree on what to watch on the telly. Sometimes, but not always, Rob will need a moment alone to recharge in his bedroom after a full day at work. Jay won’t always agree with the things Rob reads on his online message boards.

But they’ll be happy, and eventually Rob may even learn how to cook pasta.


	9. Chapter 9

# |LESSON THIRTY-SIX: MARK IS BEING A TEASE|

It is December. It’s cold. The skies are grey, promising the first snow of the year. Four weeks have passed since we last left Rob and Jay in their pasta-covered kitchen. Jay has since moved in with Rob. Last week, Rob finally learned how to cook an egg.

In the same four weeks, seventy people have sent in a song for Gary’s upcoming song contest at the Vocational College of Music and Art, making it one of the school’s most successful events.

In the same four weeks, Mark has written a song about marriage nearly every single day. He hasn’t shared his songs with a single soul. Whenever he is asked whether he is taking part in the song contest, he pretends not to be interested. Deep down he cares about the contest more than anything.

In the same four weeks, Gary has: sent away three students for misbehaving during one of his Piano lessons, done over a dozen interviews with local newspapers about his pop star career, posted a daily countdown to his upcoming album on his Instagram page, done a photoshoot for a fashion magazine and put together a band for the song contest. _Phew._

Clearly, Gary has been very busy indeed. Everything he has done has lead up to today, a Friday in December: the most important day on the school calendar. (So important, in fact, that all the students have been given a day off.)

That morning, Gary starts his morning by reading what the papers are saying about the contest. Below is an excerpt from what he’s reading right now, from the local newspaper that fell on their doormat this morning. It’s an article written by Ms Lloyd, of course, the not-so-nice journalist who kept writing bad things about him.

_  
_[…] _Gary Barlow has turned the music industry upside-down by doing something other pop stars had never dared do. He has asked his fans to write his songs_ for _him._

_Over the last four months, amateur songwriters from all over Britain were allowed to send in pop songs for a competition held in conjunction with Dorypol records and the Vocational College of Music and Art, where Gary works part-time. The prize? Gary will personally record the six best songs. They will make up the latter half of Gary’s upcoming fifth studio album, which is set to be released on Mother’s Day. It’s the first time a major label pop star has ever actively encouraged fans to curate an album with them._

_To balance out the songs sent in for the contest by strangers, Gary has also written six songs for the album himself. A representative from Dorypol records told me the songs were ‘the most personal songs Gary has ever written’ and that ‘there are at least three hits on the record’._

_A hit single would come at just the right time, for Gary’s school has recently been under fire for having a corrupt former head teacher. I was at first sceptical about the school’s chances of survival, but the song contest might just be exactly what the school needs._

_The contest, which starts today, is a one-day Eurovision-style contest held in the auditorium of the Vocational College of Music and Art. All seventy contestants will perform their original songs in a five-hour pop music extravaganza. The songs will then be whittled down to six winners by a judging panel consisting of Lulu, Rick Astley, Dave Dorypol (head of Dorypol records) and Gary Barlow himself. The contestants need not wait long: the six winning songs will be announced at the end of the contest._

_Tickets to attend the contest live have sold out, with the money raised going to a charity that provides food for children and families that are entitled to free school meals. Fans who missed out can still watch the contest on YouTube. For a full list of contestants, head to page 12 of the Culture & Arts supplement. _

_  
_Gary flips open the Culture & Arts supplement of the paper he’s been reading. He’s been sat in the living room all morning, reading every newspaper article about the upcoming contest he could find. He hasn’t even gotten dressed yet; he’s still wearing the clothes he wore to bed – grey boxers and a T-shirt. Newspapers cover every inch of the sofa he’s sat on. He’s barely slept.

Gary knows every element of the contest inside-out, and yet he finds himself poring through the list of contestants in the newspaper, desperate to find the name of _that_ person he so badly wants to take part. It’s the only part of the contest he hasn’t been in control of. He was expecting twenty contestants at most, but he ended up with seventy.

And none of them are Mark. As far as he knows.

He stares at the list of contestants in the paper. Again. There are so many of them that they barely fit on the paper. There’s Naima Aygün, a talented Songwriting student, Milton McDonald, a third-year Fashion & Textiles student, several students who graduated over five years ago and who have since gone on to study at university, a fifty-year-old dad of a Modern Design student, over twenty prospective Songwriting students from local secondary schools, one bloke named Nirvana Ciccone, Mike Stevens, a rock band, Mr Norton and many more.

It’s a mind-boggling number of contestants. Seventy in all! Because of this, the contest will take nearly five hours at least. Gary feels tired just thinking about it. It’s going to be a long day. Exciting, but long.

Especially when you don’t know whether or not you’re going to see your boyfriend all day. Oh, if only he knew whether Mark is going to compete!

Right on cue, Mark enters the living room. He’s got a messy head of bed-hair. He’s wearing silk pyjamas and a pair of white cotton socks. Even though it’s early, he’s already smiling. He’s excited for the day ahead.

Like Gary, Mark has been living towards the contest for the past four weeks. Every day, he’s had to grapple with the choice between competing or not competing, observing or taking part. He’s changed his mind so many times that he’s lost count. He must have written over fifty songs; some good, some bad.

Now, the battle in his mind is over. He’s made his decision.

‘What are you doing, Gaz?’ Mark seems to have a spring in his step. Unlike Gaz, he slept brilliantly. As ever, he had a lush dream about asking Gary to marry him.

‘I’m checking the local papers to see what they’ve written about the contest. They’ve printed a list of contestants too, see? Brilliant. _You’re_ not on it, though,’ Gary says pointedly, looking at Mark over the rim of his reading glasses as he approaches. He removes a pile of newspapers and adjusts a cushion on the sofa to make more space for him. ‘What is this all about, Mark? I thought for sure you’d be taking part! I won’t be able to concentrate now.’

‘Have you looked at the list properly? Maybe I am, you know.’

Mark does something Gary wasn’t expecting then. Instead of sinking into the empty space on the sofa, Mark sits on Gary’s lap. He places his legs on either side of Gary’s bare thighs, locking him in. He slowly takes off Gary’s reading glasses and watches patiently how a red flush rushes up Gary’s neck.

‘Then again, maybe I’m not competing at all. You’ll have to wait and see.’

Gary swallows. Mark has placed one hand on his chest, squeezing the material of his shirt into a ball in his fist. The gesture is morning shorthand for saying _I want you._

Gary knows, because a bulge has appeared in between Mark’s legs, long and hard-looking. Now Gary understands why Mark looked so bloody awake when he entered the room just now. He must have had one hell of a sex dream last night.

‘Are you always this excited before taking part in a song contest, Mark?’ Gary asks slyly. He _will_ find out whether Mark is taking part in the contest today. ‘I bet you get hard just thinking about all those people watching you perform.’

Mark chuckles softly. He can see what Gary is trying to do, but he’s not going to let him win. He wants to keep Gary guessing about his taking part until the contest begins. To him, it’s the ultimate form of teasing.

‘Do I get hard thinking about it? Yes. Taking part, though? Who knows, Gaz _._ ’ Mark is momentarily disarmed when he feels Gary’s hands sneaking into the back of his silk pyjama trousers, urging him to confess. He closes his eyes for a second to gather his thoughts. He’s got one hell of a surprise planned for Gary today (one very much inspired by his dreams), but there’s no _way_ he’s going to tell anyone. ‘Maybe I’m just gonna be in the audience, you know. Watching _you_.’

Mark leans down to give Gary an equally teasing kiss. Short and quick, it’s barely a peck on Gary’s lips.

Gary groans out of frustration. _Why won’t Mark tell him whether he’s taking part?_

His hands, needy and desperate, have tugged down Mark’s silk trousers so that they rest just below Mark’s arse. His own clothes – his boxers and shirt – feel bloody uncomfortable. _Hot._ The longer Mark sits on his lap – squeezing his thighs, quickening the blood to his prick – the more he wants to fuck Mark into confessing.

He wants nothing more than Mark to take part in the contest – but frankly, he doesn’t think he is. He _can’t_ be. Mark’s name isn’t on the list.

Would he be disappointed if Mark ended up not competing? No, of course not. They’ve been through this. Mark’s never been the most confident person when it comes to his music, and therefore Gary isn’t going to push him into doing something he may not be comfortable with. If only Mark put him out of his misery there and then, then he could stop staring at the list of contestants!

‘Why does it feel like you’re not telling me whether you’re competing just to get me all hot and bothered, Mark? I’m gonna be thinking about you all afternoon now!’

‘ _Good_ ,’ Mark purrs. He feels butterflies in his tummy just thinking about the surprise he’s got in store for Gaz. ‘It _is_ a five-hour contest, Gaz – you might as well have something to look forward to.’

Gary groans. He hates to admit this, but he’s beginning to feel rather desperate. It doesn’t help that Mark’s still sat on his lap, reminding him of all the times Mark has fucked him that way. He doesn’t know what he wants more, Mark confirming that he’s competing or Mark riding his dick.

Then again – why not both?

‘Will you tell me if I make you come, Mark?’

Mark laughs out loud. A mocking laugh. ‘That seems a bit too easy, doesn’t it, Mr Barlow?’

‘Does it?’

Mark looks down at Gary with half-lidded eyes. He puts his arms around Gary’s neck, looking for all the world as if they’re just embracing. ‘ _Way_ too easy.’

‘And if I make _you_ come _first_?’

Mark licks his lips. He glances at the window. The sky has turned the city grey, but in here, in their living room, the world is still a kaleidoscope of colours. ‘You sure are desperate for me, aren’t you, Mr Barlow?’

‘You’ve no idea.’ Gary places his large hands on either side of Mark’s skinny hips, guiding him into a slow rocking back and forth on his lap. His cheeks flush when he spots a dark stain appearing on the outside of his grey boxers. ‘What’d you think, though? You wanna mess around before you head to school to perform at the song contest?’

‘ _If_ I’m performing,’ Mark corrects Gary.

‘Is that a yes?’

Mark thinks about it. He wasn’t going to be coaxed into confessing like this, but let’s be honest – it’s not as if he’d ever lose.

He adjusts his position in Gary’s lap to make himself more comfortable and starts unbuttoning his pyjama top. _Yes_. ‘What if _you_ come first, though, Gaz?’

‘I won’t.’ Gary swallows when he sees Mark’s tanned chest appearing in front of him. He can still recognise the spot where he drew blood with his nails during sex three nights ago. ‘N-never.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that, you know.’ Mark puts his lips to Gary’s ear then. He finds the familiar shape of Gary’s cock inside his boxers and squeezes it. His chest is radiating heat. ‘Or have you forgotten when I made you come using just my hands last night?’

Gary remembers. He _always_ remembers. He can still picture in his mind’s eye all the times he and Mark have made love, as clearly as if they were doing it right now. Some memories are more special than others, but few of them will ever be more memorable than this one. For it is the last intimate thing they’ll do before the competition begins, and the last intimate thing they’ll do before Mark will surprise him with the biggest secret he’s ever held.

For Mark is planning something very big indeed, and Gary has no idea. He thinks today is just going to be an ordinary competition; a five-hour contest that will get boring after just two hours. But it very much isn’t.

Mark squeezes his hard cock out of his pyjama trousers and starts rubbing it against Gary’s slightly thicker one. He fucks himself and his lover quickly inside his fist. He does not stop even when Gary begs him to slow down.

His thighs are burning from being sat in Gary’s lap for too long and not changing positions. He imagines them doing this on their wedding night one day, and he feels a rush of pleasure prickling in his tummy. His wrist hurts. Yet Mark keeps moving his fist – up and down, up and down, quickly and impatiently, until cum rolls down the tip of Gary’s cock and Gary’s entire body flushes scarlet.

Mark tilts back and smiles. He comes in the same manner only seconds later, ruining his pyjama trousers. He looks down at Gary smugly. ‘You lose, Mr Barlow.’

Mark feels only a little sore when he leaves Gary’s lap and pulls his trousers back up. He’s grinning from ear to ear, of course.

Gary’s never going to guess whether he’s taking part now, and Mark is glad. It will keep Gary on his toes all day, which is just as well; the contest takes over five hours, and there will undoubtedly come a moment when Gary starts being bored of listening to seventy songs in a row. Little does he know what he’s got coming.

‘Guess I’ll see you in the school auditorium, Gaz.’ Mark smugly saunters into the next-door bathroom in the knowledge that Gary will chase him for a rematch.

Inevitably, Gary loses.   
  


# |LESSON THIRTY-SEVEN: CALM BEFORE THE STORM|

There was _one_ thing Gary didn’t notice while he was reading the morning papers and making love to Mark.

It had started to snow.

Snow is falling from the sky thick and fast. It covers every surface it can find: cars, trees, rooftops. Within less than an hour, the city has been blanketed with a thick layer of snow. Traffic has ground to a halt. Quiet has descended over the city streets. Every sound – every noise – is absorbed by the snow. The world has gone silent.

Well, _almost_ silent.

It is eight in the morning, and Rob’s alarm clock is going off. Three months ago he would have hit “snooze” three times or simply rolled out of bed wrapped inside his duvet like a man-sized burrito, but not today. Not anymore.

This morning, Friday, Rob wakes peacefully. He was able to sleep in; the contest is today, and all the regular lessons have been cancelled.

Grey light is pouring in from the window in front of the bed. Jason Orange is sharing Rob’s side of the bed, snuggled inside his arms; a human teddy bear.

The last thing Rob remembers before he falling asleep was Jay kissing his forehead and caressing the skin underneath his pyjama top. He could feel Jay’s breath slowing against his skin. The smell of Jay’s aftershave still lingered in the air as Rob entered a world of dreams. He slept peacefully.

Before Jay, Rob barely had a body clock. He used to go to bed at one in the morning even on workdays. He barely managed to get out of bed in the morning. He lived on energy drink and coffee, like a student.

The moment Jay moved into his flat with just the one suitcase, it was like Rob’s body moved back in sync with the rest of the world. He suddenly knew what day it was again. His petrifying spells of anxiety started occurring a little less. He feels happy; truly happy, not like that fake happiness you get after you’ve just made an impulse purchase on the internet.

No, this is a type of happiness that Rob feels inside his body every hour of the day. Like butterflies, but bigger. Much bigger.

Every morning before getting out of bed, Jay will ask Rob how he slept.

‘Like a baby,’ Rob will say without fail.

‘Because you slept next to _me_ , right?’ Jay will reply, because he likes having his ego stroked every now and then. Then they’ll kiss and maybe touch each other where Rob likes being touched, and off to the bathroom they go.

That morning, the couple emerges from the bathroom twenty minutes later looking fresh-faced and awake. In the meantime, the paperboy has squeezed that morning’s paper through the letterbox. It has landed on the doormat in the hallway. Rob goes to pick it up while Jay starts prepping for breakfast in the kitchen.

Even though he’s just preparing a simple porridge-and-tea breakfast, Jay’s put on the apron that Mark gave him as a sort of housewarming present four weeks ago. (‘I know it’s not _really_ a housewarming present,’ Mark had mumbled, red in the face, as he shoved the present into Jay’s arms in the staff room, ‘because, well, Rob’s already lived in his flat for years, hasn’t he, and you’re just moving in, but I thought you might need an apron. Oh – I’ve spoiled what the present is now, haven’t I? Anyway. I’ve given you an apron. Not that I think _you’re_ gonna be doing all the cooking, you know, but well, I – I sort of thought it might suit you.’) Naturally, the apron is orange.

Rob walks into the kitchen half-reading the newspaper. He’s leafing through its pages. He opens the paper on a full-colour page filled with names. He flattens the paper on the dining table and bends over to look at it more closely just as Jay fills two small bowls of oatmeal with almond milk. He adds a drop of honey and pops the bowls into the microwave.

‘What’s that, Rob?’ Jay joins Rob at the dining table while the microwave is humming noisily in the background.

‘It’s the name of all the people who are takin’ part in the contest today.’ Rob looks up from the list of names in the newspaper. ‘I still can’t believe you managed to get us tickets, by the way. Even Ms Minogue didn’t manage to get any, and she’s famous!’

Jay smiles smugly. ‘I can be very persuasive, Rob.’

‘Yeah, cos the lady at the ticket counter at school fancies you!’

Jay shrugs as if to say, _What can you do?_ He peers into the window of the microwave to see how his oatmeal is getting on. He can see the oatmeal bubbling and changing shape like grey lava. ‘Are you looking for anyone in particular?’

‘Yeah, I’m looking for Mark.’ Rob runs his index finger down all the names on the list. The letters are tiny. ‘He’s not on the list – just a lot of students and this dude called Nirvana Ciccone or something. What kind of name is that? I’m kinda disappointed; I thought for sure Mark would be taking part.

‘Then again, maybe he didn’t want to share his songs with anyone. You should’ve seen the songs he shared with me a month ago, Jay – they were all about how badly he wants to ask Gary to marry him!’

Rob’s hands shoot towards his mouth. He says _shit_ very quietly.

Jay ignores the sound of the microwave _pinging_. The news that Mark wants to marry Gary is, well, news to him. ‘Were you _supposed_ to tell me that, Rob?’

Rob shakes his head. His face has gone very pale. He promised Mark he wouldn’t tell anyone that he want to propose to Gaz. ‘ _Please_ don’t tell him I told you. He’ll kill me if he finds out.’

‘Oh, I’m not sure if Mark is the murderous type, Rob,’ Jay says reassuringly. He opens the small door of the microwave and gets out two steaming bowls of oatmeal using a dishcloth. He thinks about what he has learned for a second, analyses it, turns it upside-down, then ejects it from his brain. ‘Don’t worry – I promise I won’t tell him.’

Rob mouths _thank you_. He’s never been more relieved that he’s dating someone who is a man of his word. ‘I’m such a blabbermouth, Jay. I don’t know _why_ I told you.’

‘Told me what?’ Jay smiles and feigns ignorance. He casually starts putting chia seed and a pinch of vanilla into his two breakfast bowls. Next, he adds some yoghurt. This is the type of breakfast that will keep you going until noon. ‘We were just talking about the contest, right? Speaking of, when does it take place again? I forget.’

Rob looks at the newspaper on the kitchen counter, visibly relieved. He knows Jay would never tell anyone what he now knows about Mark, but still – he is glad Jay is pretending to be none the wiser. ‘It starts at three. Jesus – it doesn’t end till eight.’

‘Blimey.’

‘I know.’ Rob blows a raspberry. He closes the newspaper. ‘No wonder all the lessons have been cancelled today! I’m obviously lookin’ forward to hearin’ all the news songs and stuff, but I’m also _not_ lookin’ forward to it. You know what I mean? Five hours is a long time.’

‘Good thing _I’m_ keeping you company then,’ says Jay. And he gives Rob a big smooch on the lips, as he has done before breakfast every morning.

They continue preparing their oatmeal breakfast together while the snow keeps falling thickly and heavily outside their kitchen window. Like natural ticker tape from the sky, already celebrating what is yet to come.

***

Even though Mark didn’t volunteer to help out at the contest like some of his colleagues, he still wanted to be at school early to “work on next week’s lesson plans in the staff room”. (Or something. Mark can sometimes be a terrible liar. He’s not going to work on lesson plans really. But Gary doesn’t have to know that.) He and Gary finally arrive at work at eight in the morning. The parking lot is covered in snow.

‘Have you had a look at the list of contestants, by the way?’ Gary asks Mark. His feet sink into sludgy snow as he gets out of the car. ‘There are some interesting names on there. Naima Aygün, Mr Stevens . . . and some bloke named Nirvana Ciccone, weirdly enough. Weird name, that. Do you think his mother named him that?’

‘They could be a girl, you know,’ Mark points out. He almost trips over his own two feet.

‘With a name like Nirvana?’

‘Why not?’ Pink spots have appeared on Mark’s cheeks. ‘Girls listen to Nirvana too.’

They slowly head to the main entrance of the school. Their short walk through the school is quiet, but the silence is comfortable, not becoming awkward until they reach the double doors of the auditorium. Next to it, there’s a wooden stand selling cheap merchandise for charity. A couple of doors away, Ms Brooke can be seen walking into the staff room. They’ve arrived at their respective destinations.

Gary jabs a thumb at the double doors of the auditorium. ‘I’m off to meet the other judges. I guess I’ll see you in the staff room later?’

Mark does not reply. Although his mouth is wide open, no sound seems to be coming out. He’s too busy staring at the auditorium. The double doors are wide open, meaning Mark can easily see the familiar stage where he and Gary once embraced. His tummy does cartwheels just looking at it. The stage is a lot bigger than he remembers it being.

And then all those _seats!_ Still empty, there are at least one hundred more seats than when Mark visited the auditorium last. According to this morning’s papers, over three hundred tickets were sold, which is the biggest audience the school has had, ever.

As if seeing all those seats wasn’t nerve-wracking enough, Mark also spots five big cameras being set up by professional camera operators. He thought the event might be filmed with a poor Android camera, but this is something else. This looks like a proper pop show, like those audition stages of _The X Factor_ that always take place in big places like Wembley Arena. It’s the same set-up: lots of seats, a judging panel and loads of cameras.

Mark finds it all very mesmerising and very intimidating. He looks away from it.

‘Marko, you still with us, mate?’ Gary waves his hands in front of Mark’s eyes.

Mark shakes his head as though he’s just broken a spell he was under. He was stood there staring at the auditorium for over a minute, frozen on the spot. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘I asked you if I’d be seeing you in the staff room later.’ Gary chuckles. It’s so like _Mark_ to get distracted. ‘I could show you round the auditorium first, if you want.’

‘ _Oh._ Oh, no, thank you. I’ll – I’ll just be in the – in the staff room. Marking homework.’

Gary raises one eyebrow. He looks sceptical. ‘I thought you’d be writing lesson plans?’

‘Yes. Also.’ Mark hopes Gary can’t see him shaking.

Seeing the auditorium has suddenly made the contest very tangible for Mark. Sometimes you spend so long looking forward to something that it stops being real and you start to wonder whether it’s even going to be happening at all.

But it’s happening, and that realisation has hit Mark like a brick, making him speak in a way that doesn’t make sense. ‘Anyway. Yes. I’ll be in the staff room while you do your thing in the, _er_ , auditorium. Break a leg, I guess? I mean, not literally, of course. That’d be awful. But it’s bad luck wish someone “good luck”, isn’t it? _Oh_ – have I jinxed the contest by wishing you good luck now? I didn’t _mean_ to. I just want you to do well, you know.’

‘I know,’ Gary says, chuckling rather. He reaches out for Mark’s hand and squeezes it, hoping that Mark will understand what he cannot say. ‘I want you to do well too. You know, with your _homework_ and all that.’

Mark cannot quite get his mouth to make the words “thank you” to come out right, so he squeezes Gary’s hand as tightly as he can. With that, they go their separate ways: Gary, into the auditorium; Mark? No-one knows. We’ll have to wait and see.  
  


# |LESSON THIRTY-EIGHT: SINGERS WANTED|

The most exciting moment of a show is not the show itself. It’s the moment when the lights go out. The lights in the auditorium go out at three p.m. exactly, and the entire room fills with rapturous applause. Girls shout. A woman on the front row almost faints at the sight of the cameras.

The four judges arrive: Gary Barlow – dressed in a tight black suit –, Mrs Kennedy-Cairns, Mr Astley (a Music teacher who enjoyed a very successful music career, and who has since become a living and walking meme) and Mr Dave Dorypol, the head of Gary’s record label. People swoon at the mere sight of Gary Barlow, the most successful singer-songwriter in the country.

The judges quickly take their seats at the judging panel in front of the audience. Gary tries to see if he can spot Mark in the audience against the glare of the spotlight. He can’t see Mark anywhere. The only faces Gary recognises are Rob and Jason and some students. He also spots Ms Lloyd, the journalists from the local newspaper. He smiles at her.

A famous presenter has been hired by Dorypol records to tie the whole contest together. He welcomes the audience who is watching from home, introduces the judges and explains how the contest will work. One by one, each contestant will perform their original song on stage.

After each performance, the judges will be asked to make a quick comment on the performance they just saw. They have been instructed to judge only the song and not the contestants’ singing abilities. (‘Which can vary greatly,’ the presenter jokes.)

After all seventy songs have been performed (the presenter quickly explains that there will be two intervals, which makes the audience sigh in relief), the judges will retreat backstage to decide which six songs they liked best. The six best songs will then be announced at eight in the evening in no particular order. The winning songs, of course, will be recorded by Gary Barlow for his upcoming fifth studio album. (‘No pressure there,’ says the presenter.) 

Having explained everything, the presenter announces that it’s finally time to welcome the first contestant to the stage.

‘Are you all ready?’ the presenter shouts. ‘Yeah,’ the audience responds, in a slightly bored manner. ‘ARE YOU ALL READY!?’ the presenter shouts again, much louder this time, and he gets a slightly more excited audience response in return.

The first contestant enters the stage. It’s a second-year Songwriting student called Roxanne Torres. Her song, which she explains she wrote while on a trip to California, is a sweet pop song about a holiday romance. It’s good, but Gary thinks it could do with a better bridge. Mr Dorypol’s only comment is that the song is ‘catchy, but so is the flu,’ which is a joke that will age terribly. With that, the contest has officially started.

The second contestant is a twelve-year-old girl who wants to study at VCMA after she’s passed her GSCEs. It’s a song about her pet cat. Contestant 14 is several contestants. They’re a band. They perform a heavy-metal song about capitalism. When the performance is over, Gary jokes, ‘Maybe we’ll save your song for me sixth album.’ This makes all the straight women in the audience laugh. Isn’t Gary Barlow funny?

Contestant 15 performs such a boring song that Rob falls asleep during it. He is woken up by Jay kissing his fingers. Even Gary can’t quite stay focussed; every now and then, he looks over his shoulder to see if he can spot Mark in the audience after all. (Unfortunately, this leads to the members of the audience getting very excited, because they all think Gary is looking specifically at _them_. Gary is told by production to keep his eyes on the stage.)

Song 16 is another boring track. A lot of people decide that now is the perfect time to go to the toilet.

By now, the contest has only just entered its second hour. The audience is getting a little bored of hearing one romantic ballad after another. Thankfully, song twenty is a catchy pop song that gets most of the audience on their feet. It’s been written by Henry, a promising first-year Songwriting student with blue hair. Gary and Mr Dorypol share excited glances.

During a short interval, while the assistant producers get ready to welcome Contestant 25, a one-man band, good news reaches the judging panel. 70,000 people are watching the contest online. They’re trending on Twitter in the U.K. Ms Lloyd is live-tweeting the whole thing, and she has yet to post something negative.

Gary couldn’t feel prouder. The school is saved!

Song twenty-nine, performed by two VCMA alumni, is a bit bland. Mrs Kennedy-Cairns whispers something to Gary behind her hand while the performance is underway. ‘Have you heard the rumour?’ she says.

‘What rumour?’ Gary’s eyebrows nearly jump off his face when one of the performers hits a particularly bad note.

‘A little bird has told me that your Mark is performing today.’

‘He can’t be,’ Gary whispers. ‘His name isn’t on the list.’

‘Look at Contestant 69.’

Gary turns the list of contestants on his desk as discreetly as he can as song twenty-nine is being performed. He glances at the name of Contestant 69. ‘It says Nirvana Ciccone,’ Gary says. ‘That isn’t – oh. _Oh._ ’

‘Told you,’ Lulu smiles, and she turns her attention back to the stage.

Just as the current performance ends and the audience claps politely, a lightbulb lights up in Gary’s brain.

_Nirvana Ciccone_. Nirvana, as in the name of Mark’s former pet lizard. Ciccone, as in Madonna Ciccone, one of Mark’s favourite female pop stars.

Mark is taking part after all.

‘Gary, your thoughts on song twenty-nine, please?’

The presenter prompts Gary for a reply, cutting through his train of thought. The spotlight is shining into his eyes. The two VCMA alumni are looking at him nervously. The audience is quiet, but his heart is racing. He can’t think straight. He feels like he’s a student who’s just been caught staring at his phone by a teacher.

‘It, _er_ , it was good, yeah.’ Gary was so busy whispering with Mrs Kennedy-Cairns that he wasn’t really paying any attention to the song.

_Nirvana Ciccone_.

His heart flutters inside his chest. He can see one of the live cameras doing a close-up on his face. He’s started to sweat. He signals to Lulu with his eyes, saying, _help me out here_.

‘I agree, Gaz,’ Mrs Kennedy-Cairns says, catching Gary’s gaze. ‘Very good second verse! Good lyrics, too! I do wonder if Gary hasn’t already done this type of sound on previous albums, though. The production is a tad dated. It reminds me a bit of my 1993 album, actually!’

‘I disagree, Lou,’ Mr Astley says. Some older members of the audience swoon. ‘I think it sounds _very_ current.’

Mrs Kennedy-Cairns very much does _not_ agree with Mr Astley disagreeing with her, and thus they break out into a bit of an argument. Camera operators rush to catch the argument on camera. Ms Lloyd posts a tweet about how the two judges clearly hate each other.

The argument does give Gary some time to think about what he’s just discovered. He looks at the list of contestants again. _Nirvana Ciccone_. It makes so much sense now that he thinks about it. Mark was never going to send in a song under his own name.

Was Nirvana Ciccone’s song any good? Gary can’t remember. He did listen to some of the songs prior to the actual contest, but there were so many of them that he gave up after two hours. Besides, Mark could easily have asked a student to sing the song _for_ him. As it stands, Gary has no idea what to expect from song sixty-nine other than that it’s probably going to be performed by his boyfriend.

He feels proud, though. Nervous, but also proud. This is going to be a good moment for Mark.

What a tease, though! Mark knew exactly what he was doing when he decided not to tell anyone he was competing.

_If only he wasn’t performing second-to-last!_ Gary thinks. He glances at his watch when the cameras aren’t filming him. It’s going to be a long day.

***

The rumours are true: Mark Owen is taking part in the song contest. He is the 69th contestant (how fitting), and he is performing under the name of Nirvana Ciccone, an ode to his late lizard and his favourite female popstar. He can currently be found in the busy backstage area of the auditorium.

The backstage area, shielded from the audience, is cluttered with wires, rubbish, props and instruments. There are many ropes you can trip over. (Mark almost did twice.) A rolled-up piece of cloth, painted in green, is stacked up against a wall. Contestants and volunteers constantly fall over each other trying to move around. A camera crew is filming the backstage action. There must be about forty people here, which will be unheard of by the time you are reading this story. But once upon a time, concerts and events such as this were very much still happening.

Being backstage, surrounded by people, Mark finds himself thinking about the music industry again, which he’s always had a complicated relationship with. Part of him loves the industry.

Part of him hates it.

What’s the point of writing songs when there’s no-one around to hear them? What’s the point of sharing your art when you get told, time and time again, that it isn’t any good? Why should he bother putting himself in front of an audience when it’s only going to make him want to throw up?

It hasn’t always been like this. Mark stepped into the music industry _smiling_. He took on every opportunity he could find, working for every artist who would have him. He did everything to get himself noticed. _Everything._

Sure, he didn’t get paid that much, and it wasn’t like he could get his own album out, but he was being paid enough to pay the bills. And best of all, he was being paid for the one thing he loved most of all: making music.

Eventually, he stopped smiling. There came a point when he’d walk into a room filled with record label executives and the people would hardly look at him.

There eventually came a point when the bills stopped coming in and Mark had no choice but to get a proper job. He quit the music industry and discovered teaching. He became pretty good at it, too.

He does miss the industry terribly, though. For a door into a previous life never truly closes. You always leave it ajar, unknowingly allowing old demons to come back to haunt you.

Taking part in the contest is Mark’s way of closing the door to the past behind him again. By taking part, he can say, _I did it. I tried. Guess my music isn’t so bad after all._ Even if he does not win, he is a winner in his own eyes simply by sending in a song.

The only problem is, the song that Mark sent in is without a question of a doubt one of Mark’s most personal. It is steeped in metaphors about marriage and love. It even features a lyric that very clearly describes when he and Gary first met. 

As Mark reads through his lyrics for a dozenth time, he is again questioning the song’s meaning. He’s sat on the floor in the backstage area of the auditorium, hidden in a little cranny where there’s only the one lightbulb. Here, the camera crew can’t see him.

Reading his second verse again, Mark realises he might as well have called the song _The Wedding Song_ , it’s that obvious. Does he really want to sing a song about marriage in front of a large audience? And worst of all, his boyfriend? He’s torn.

Mark has to look up from his journal when a tall someone steps into the light, covering his journal in darkness. His little hiding spot has been discovered by Naima, a kind second-year Songwriting student with no interest in love. Mark always loves reading her poems.

‘Naima, hey.’ Mr Owen smiles. He closes his journal. ‘I didn’t know you were performing.’

‘I’m up in ten minutes. May I?’ Naima indicates the empty spot next to her teacher. She sits and hugs her knees against her chest, her long brown hair falling over her shoulders. ‘I’m really nervous, Mr Owen.’

‘So am I. It’s scary, isn’t it, performing in front of all of those people? I think I might close my eyes and pretend I’m singing in my bedroom!’ Mr Owen notices that the palms of Naima’s hands are covered in words. Lyrics. ‘What’s your song about?’

‘ _Love._ ’ Naima rolls her eyes.

‘Is it really?’

‘No. _Ugh._ I’ve written a song about how love isn’t everything and that you don’t always need to be in a romantic relationship to feel like you’re an accomplished human being even though everyone around you always tells you that friendships are less valid than romances.’

‘Sounds like a mouthful.’

‘It sounds better when you hear the song.’ Naima visibly starts when the crowd in the auditorium erupts into cheers, indicating the end of yet another performance. There’s a din of activity backstage as the next contestant is asked to get himself ready. ‘What’s _your_ song about, Sir?

‘Love,’ Mark sighs. He wishes he could see Gary from up here.

‘Does the person you’ve written the song about know you’re here?’

Mark’s heart skips a beat. He feels a smattering of panic. ‘How do you know my song is about someone in particular?’

‘Love songs usually are. It’s why I think they’re so bloody boring – why write about _one_ person when you can just write about feminist issues?’ Naima lets out a longing sigh. She stretches her arms, exposing a small tattoo of an arrow on her wrist. ‘Then again, if I _were_ capable of having crushes on people, I probably wouldn’t advertise my feelings in a song. I’ve always thought it’s a bit selfish when you’re in love with someone and you release a song about them and you’re like, “Hey, what do you think about this song that I wrote about us that millions of people can listen to on Spotify?”

‘People think love is all about grand gestures, but honestly?’ Naima watches Mr Owen’s face, trying to gauge his reaction. ‘I think it’s just about the small things. If you really care about someone, just tell them. Or be a cool person and write a song about donuts. Both work for me. It’s pop music; there are no rules.’

Mark regards Naima with newfound respect. He knew Naima was quite a clever young woman who cares more about friends and creative writing than she does about love, but he didn’t realise that you can still know quite a lot about love even when you’re not interested in it.

What Naima has said has completely put Mark’s thoughts on the contest on its head. Is it true that small gestures are more important than big ones? And if so, what does that say about his song and his taking part in the contest? He wonders what Naima would say if he told her what his song is really about.

Sadly, he doesn’t get the chance to ask; an assistant producer approaches them and informs Naima that she’s up next. She disappears into the crowd in the backstage area, leaving Mark with more questions than answers.

***

After a short interval, the contest enters its fourth hour. 75,000 people are watching the contest online. Several names of contestants, like Henry with the blue hair, are trending on Twitter.

Meanwhile, Gary is beginning to feel more and more anxious. Time is ticking by slowly. He wonders how Mark is feeling about his upcoming performances. Gary wishes he could go backstage right now to kiss Mark’s lips and tell him everything is going to be all right and that he will support him no matter what the other judges decide.

Unfortunately, there are still twenty contestants to go, and Gary’s not allowed to meet any of the contestants backstage. He has a hard time staying focussed.

Thankfully, Contestant 50 is someone he knows quite well: Naima Aygün, a second-year Songwriting student whom Gary had in his extracurricular Piano lessons last year. Her song sounds like an upgraded take on the type of songs Gary wrote for his previous album, which were about living life by the fullest surrounded by friends.

The song is rewarded with rapturous applause from the audience. When the applause has died down, Mr Dorypol comments that the song is ‘one of the best we’ve heard all evening’. Mrs Kennedy-Cairns agrees, saying that the song sounds like a professional pop song. Naima leaves the stage beaming.

Contestant 53 is Mr Norton, a teacher from the Music department. His song has the entire audience on their feet. ‘Another potential winner,’ Mr Astley remarks.

Things go downhill after that. The next three songs are all utterly boring ballads. Inside the auditorium, time creeps by at a snail’s pace. Gary continues to glance at his watch. He keeps staring at the list of contestants in front of him. He has circled the name Nirvana Ciccone several times. By now, the contest has entered its final hour. Gary is no longer paying any attention. The only thing he can think of is Mark and his song and what if the fellow judges don’t like it and what if the crowds at home think he’s shit? Gary actually feels nervous _for_ him.

Contestant 68 performs a slow ballad. It’s only three minutes long, but to Gary, it feels like the song might as well last three hours.

Gary has to press his hand on his chest to stay his heartbeat when Contestant 68 finally leaves the stage. The presenter arrives with a white cue card in his hand. He’s about to announce the name of Contestant 69. Nirvana Ciccone _. Mark._

This is it. Mark will perform his song, and everything in the world will be wonderful and everyone will love it.

Or rather, that was the idea.

‘I’ve just had some bad news from the production team,’ the presenter says. The crowd goes quiet. Two cameramen zoom in on the judges’ faces. A full close-up shows Gary’s eyebrows shooting up his forehead. ‘Unfortunately, Contestant 69 – Mark Owen – has decided to pull out of the contest. He will not be performing.’


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the final chapter! Have fun.

# |LESSON THIRTY-NINE: MEETING MARK, REPRISE|

Gary will never forget the first time he met Mark. It was a Monday in April. The sun was shining, and the sky was blue. Every lesson Gary did that day was good, if you can believe it. Even his lesson with the more difficult first-year Songwriting students had been successful, with his students actually listening to him instead of staring at their phones.

Then he walked into the staff room, and his day got even better.

He was wearing all-black that day: an expensive tailored black jacket, black trousers and a black T-shirt. He’d recently dyed his quiff a peroxide blonde. He hadn’t shaved that morning. He was one of the most handsome men in the building, and he knew it. Which was just as well, because he was about to meet the love of his life.

_‘Gary! Mr B! Come over here, mate.’_ It was one of his fellow colleagues and best mate, Rob. He was waving at Gary like an idiot, a wild look in his eyes.

Gary did as he was asked. He slowly made his way through the crowd. It was lunchtime, so the staff room was filled with colleagues from the Music department. He stopped at Rob’s table and noticed with a pleasant flutter in his tummy that his mate was sat next to someone new. Someone really handsome.

_‘Hang on, I’ve never seen_ you _before,’_ said Gary.

The new person – short brown hair, pretty eyes – started blushing from his crown down to his neck at the attention.

_‘HELLOIMNEW,’_ said the stranger, before a burst of nervousness forced him to look at the floor. Gary thought the stranger was adorable already.

_‘You’re the new Creative Writing, teacher, aren’t you?’_ said Gary. He vaguely remembered reading about a new colleague in the school’s online newspaper. _‘I didn’t think you’d be joining us today. I’m Gary Barlow, by the way. Piano teacher.’_

He gave Mark a firm handshake.

_‘M-Mark Owen,’_ stuttered Mark. Instead of staring at the ground like he’d been doing previously, his eyes accidentally travelled all the way from Gary’s eyes to his crotch.

_‘Great subject, Creative Writing,’_ Gary said. He gave Mark a quick once-over. He felt every bad thought Mark was having about him, because Gary was having the exact same bad thoughts too. _‘You know what, I’ve lately been thinking about introducing a few things from the CW curriculum into me own lessons. Maybe we could do a bit of brainstorming over a cup of coffee sometime this term?’_

Gary said “brainstorming”, but he actually meant “snogging”. He had only known Mark for a couple of minutes, but he had already decided he wanted to snog Mark very badly indeed.

_‘I-I d-don’t know a lot a-about the school yet, so t-that sounds like a g-great idea,’_ Mark said, stuttering rather.

_‘Brilliant,’_ Gary said. He had a twinkle in his eyes. _‘I’ll be in touch.’_

Gary walked away looking rather satisfied with himself. He walked past a corkboard filled with personal notices and a poster about safe sex and joined the one-person queue for the coffee machine. In front of him stood Howard, who was busy jamming his fingers on the coffee machine, desperate for a cup of coffee.

_‘I see that Harrison still hasn’t replaced the coffee machine,’_ Gary noted, while the coffee machine poured a thick brown liquid into Howard’s paper cup. It looked like mud.

_‘It’s ridiculous,’_ Howard sighed. He glanced at the contents of his cup, made a face, and then drank the brown drab anyway. _‘The school gets all this cash from bloody_ re-sits _, but we can’t even afford a proper coffee machine. I sometimes wonder if Harrison just keeps all the money to ‘imself.’_

Gary made a punctuated _hm_ with his mouth. He put a paper cup in the cup holder, pressed the button for “tea” and waited while the coffee machine poured plain hot water into his cup. It was a weird yellow colour. _‘Have you met the new Creative Writing teacher, by the way?’_

_‘I’ve seen ‘im, yeah. Why?’_

_‘What do you think of him?’_

Howard looked at the new teacher while Gary removed the tea bag from his cup and tossed it into a recycle bin. _‘I think he looks just like your type. And by the looks of it, the feeling is mutual.’_

Gary put his cup to his mouth just as Mark looked in his direction. They locked eyes, and Mark looked away immediately, blushing still. A mere minutes later, Mark was whipped out of the staff room by evil head teacher Mr Harrison, who was about to tell him that he’d be teaching Art History as well as Creative Writing. But as Mark left the staff room, he still had time to lock eyes with Gary one more time; a lingering gaze, like one might look at an expanding star.

At that moment, Gary _knew_. He just did. He saw an entire life with Mark flashing before him as if he’d just died and gone to heaven, except he was very much still alive. He felt more alive than ever, and he would continue to feel increasingly alive over the course of nine beautiful months, in which he grew to love Mark Owen more and more each day.

Fast-forward to December, and the love Gary has for Mark is about to reach its zenith.  
  


# |LESSON FORTY: A QUESTION|

December. The song contest.

The presenter arrives with a white cue card in his hand. He’s about to announce the name of Contestant 69. Nirvana Ciccone _. Mark._

Gary’s heart almost leaps out of his throat. This is it. Mark will perform his song, and everything in the world will be wonderful and everyone will love it.

Or rather, that was the idea.

‘I’ve just had some bad news from the production team,’ the presenter says. The crowd goes quiet. Two cameramen zoom in on the judges’ faces. A full close-up shows Gary’s eyebrows shooting up his forehead. ‘Unfortunately, Contestant 69 – Mark Owen – has decided to pull out of the contest. They will not be performing.’

Silence ripples through the auditorium. Mark is the first person to pull out of the contest. And the last, because the next contestant – Contestant 70, a girl with curly brown hair – is already waiting in the wings. When she’s done, the contest will be over.

She enters the stage, and Nirvana Ciccone’s absence is clean forgotten. The crowd cheer for her as though she is a pop star. It’s like Mark never even existed.

For Gary, the next three minutes are a blur. It’s as though a fog has descended on his brain. He can no longer focus. The only thing he can think of is Contestant 69. Nirvana Ciccone. Mark Owen, whom Gary loves so deeply. Mark, whom Gary had hoped would blow everyone away with his original song.

Mark, who for some reason has pulled out of the contest.

_Why?_ Has something happened? Gary needs to know.

After the final contestant has been performed, Gary finds himself stood next to his chair. How he got there, he does not know. He’s gripping the side of the judges’ desk so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. Lulu is looking at him with a worried expression on her face.

He’s no longer fully aware of his own actions. He’s watching everything unfold from above, like he’s watching a bad movie of himself. The cameras are filming everything. People on social media are commenting that Gary looks ‘strange’ and ‘unhinged’. Ms Lloyd, a journalist from a local newspaper, had just tweeted a scathing remark about Gary’s behaviour.

Gary couldn’t care less. He needs to find Mark.

‘I need a moment alone.’ Gary doesn’t address the words at anyone in particular.

The crowd erupts into cries of confusion and protest as Gary almost tumbles down an elevated platform and disappears into a dark corridor next to the stage, away from the cameras. He ignores the confused looks from the crew members in the dark backstage area. He just runs. 

The blood has rushed to his ears. His mind is so far gone that he doesn’t even register the presenter’s voice cutting through the noise, asking the crowd to calm down.

It’s pandemonium. Gary almost trips over a set of wires.

He addresses the first volunteer he can find, a young lad carrying a guitar. ‘Contestant 69. Where did he go?’

The volunteer visibly shrinks away. Mr Barlow can be very intimidating, and the volunteer would know: he’s a second-year Songwriting student who once broke one of Gary’s precious keyboards during a lesson. ‘I – I don’t know. H-he left before he was supposed to perform.’

‘When was this exactly?’ Gary ignores the members of crew – people hired by Dorypol records – asking him to get back to his seat.

‘I think Mr Owen left after _my_ performance, Sir.’ This comes from Naima Aygün, another Songwriting student. She’d stayed behind to help out backstage. A student of Mr Owen’s, she looks worried. ‘Do you think something happened to him?’

‘I don’t know.’ Gary checks his watch. Naima performed over half an hour ago. ‘I suppose you didn’t happen to see where Mr Owen went, Naima?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine, Sir,’ Naima says. ‘Although you could always try classroom 127-MA.’

Mark technically doesn’t have his own classroom, but classroom 127-MA is the closest thing to it. It’s where Mark spends the majority of his lessons.

Five minutes later, Gary stops in front of the closed door of classroom 127-MA, uncertain as to whether he should enter, assuming Mark is even there at all. Everywhere in the building, people are looking for him. Even Ms Lloyd the journalist is on a mission to snap up an interview with Gary, asking him why he left.

The contest stopped dead after Gary ran away. The crew don’t know what to do. Instead of becoming less popular, the live stream has gained even more viewers. Everyone in the country wants to know why Gary Barlow ran out of a packed auditorium. Viewers have even gone as far as to say it’s a publicity stunt.

Thankfully, there seem to be no people on the first floor. He’s surprised; he thought for sure he’d be followed.

Gary stares at the door that has the numbers “127” on it. The last time Gary found Mark in this classroom, on the day they’d first met, the floor was covered in paper planes. They’d been left there by students: rowdy boys from the first-year Web Design course who enjoyed bullying their teachers. The paper planes were covered in negative words like “Mr Owen can’t teach”. Their behaviour had made Mark burst into tears afterwards.

If Gary hadn’t entered the classroom afterwards, who knows what would have happened? Mark might have quit his job on day one, and he and Gary would never have fallen in love. The paper planes were an awful reminder that Mark was a teacher out of his depth, and yet they led to Mark and Gary meeting a second time, perhaps even allowing them to fall in love. For even though Mark’s eyes were filled with tears the moment he entered the room, Gary thought he looked absolutely beautiful.

Gary knocks on the door of classroom 127-MA twice. He’s not expecting a reply. Mark could have gone home for all he knows. Mark hasn’t been replying to any of his messages.

Then: ‘Come in.’

Gary’s heart flutters. It’s Mark. Naima was right.

***

Ten minutes earlier.

Gary has just run out of the auditorium. The auditorium itself has turned into a zoo. Members of the audience are angry. Surprised. Scared. Where has Gary Barlow gone, and why are the judges not announcing the winning songs? What is going on? Camera operators aren’t sure whether to continue filming or not.

It’s chaos, but Rob’s mind is clear. He watched everything unfold from his seat in the auditorium, and if he knows Gary as well as he thinks he does, then there’s only one place Gary could have gone. Contestant 69. _Mark._

He gets up, ignores the questioning looks from the people next to him and drags Jay out of his seat. ‘We need to go.’

‘Why?’ asks Jay.

‘Can’t you see?’

Rob gestures at the scenes below. Mr Dorypol has his hands in his hair. Mrs Kennedy-Cairns is biting her nails. The stage has filled with anxious members of the production crew. They’re at a loss as to how to continue the show without Gary.

Mr Gavin – the man Gary organised the contest with – has run on stage. He’s on the phone with someone. The name “Gary Barlow” is being whispered by every member of the audience. More and more people are tuning in to watch the live stream.

‘Everyone’s looking for Gaz,’ Rob explains. ‘We need to make sure no-one on the crew finds him. It’s too important! Sorry! Excuse me!’

Rob grabs Jay’s hand and pulls him along. They make haste for the aisle, forcing people to get up from their seats grumbling. Have you ever tried getting to the toilet during an all-seated Take That concert while Rick Astley is performing _Angels On My Side_ with his background singers? It’s a bit like that. Rob almost trips over someone’s feet twice.

Jay can barely keep up. ‘Rob, slow down! Why mustn’t Gary be found?’

‘It’s a hunch!’ Rob cries over the din of the crowd. ‘I think I know why Mark has pulled out of the contest!’

‘What?’ The crowd is so loud that Jay can barely hear.

‘I’ll explain when we get down!’

They rush down the stairs under the cover of darkness, ignore an angry security guard who tells them to head back to their seats, push open the double doors of the auditorium and step into the corridor. It now being evening, the corridor is dark. It’s empty save for a lone figure. Gary. He’s running towards the staircase in the main hall, no doubt looking for Mark.

Rob quickly turns to Jay, whose face looks red from running down the stairs in the auditorium. He starts talking very quickly and impatiently. ‘Jay, if my hunch is right, and Mark has indeed pulled out of the contest for the reason I think he has, and Gary’s gone looking for him, then we need to make sure no-one finds them. _No-one_ , Jay. Will you trust me and help?’

Jay swallows. He thinks about what Rob told him while going through the list of contestants in the newspaper this morning. _‘I’m looking for Mark. He’s not on the list – just a lot of students and this dude called Nirvana Ciccone or something. What kind of name is that? I’m disappointed; I thought for sure Mark would take part. Then again, maybe he didn’t want to share his songs with anyone. You should’ve seen the songs he shared with me a month ago, Jay_.’

‘Does this have to do with what we talked about this morning? The thing you weren’t supposed to tell me?’ adds Jay, for clarity.

Rob nods.

‘Okay.’ Jay nods fiercely. He can feel the enormity of what they’re about to do in his chest. ‘Tell me how I can help.’

At the same time, Mr Dorypol and two cameramen come charging out of the auditorium. Rob and Jay are the first people the head of the record label sees. He addresses the two of them. His eyes are very wide and his hair is sticking up in places. ‘You two. Did you see where Gary Barlow was going?’

Rob swallows. A quick glance over his shoulder confirms that Gary has just disappeared up the stairs. He points in the opposite direction. ‘I think he went that way, didn’t he, Jay?’

‘It’s true,’ says Jay. He sounds nervous. ‘I think he went outside, Sir.’

‘Thanks!’ Mr Dorypol and the camera crew run into the direction Rob and Jay indicated.

Rob inhales sharply. ‘We’re not done yet, look.’

Somehow, Ms Lloyd – the tabloid journalist – has found another way out of the auditorium. Holding a Dictaphone in one hand and a large camera in the other, she is obviously looking for a story. A story involving Gary’s sudden departure.

And she’s headed straight for the staircase in the main hall.

‘I think I know a shortcut,’ says Jay, pulling Rob into the opposite direction.

They head upstairs using a rarely-used fire escape next to classroom 014-MA. The railings are covered in dust and cobwebs, and in a corner on the ground floor, a small mouse is nibbling on something.

Although the staircase is steep, they reach the first floor quickly. They have to push open a heavy door that leads into a long hallway. They spot Gary easily. He’s just knocked on the door of classroom 127-MA. _Mark’s_ classroom. He glances in their direction while he waits for the person at the other side of the door to respond.

‘Quick, hide!’ Rob pulls Jay behind a pot that has quite a large plant in it.

‘Why are we hiding from one of our mates?’ asks Jay.

‘Because it adds to the excitement of the plot. Look, he’s going in! I bet Mark’s there too. Oh, if my hunch is right . . . this is so exciting, Jay!’

They watch Gary unlocking the door of the classroom with his key card. Gary enters not knowing that Rob and Jay are watching him.

Just as the door closes with a soft thud, Ms Lloyd walks past with her Dictaphone and large camera. Rob and Jay duck. A true journalist, she knows a big story when she sees it. Gary Barlow leaving the contest in the middle of its conclusion is without a doubt headline material. Could it be that Gary has changed his mind about allowing fans to curate his album? Does he think the songs that the contestants sent in are not good enough? Or is he hiding something, and is he as corrupt as the school’s former head teacher? She _must_ find out.

Jay turns to Rob. Ms Lloyd can’t see them hidden behind the plant pot, but they can see _her_ , and she looks like she’s on a mission, talking to herself into her Dictaphone. ‘What do we do now?’

‘We need to create a diversion.’ Just as Rob says that, a big leaf from the plant gets in his way. He gets poked in the eye by it. He says ‘ow’ very loudly, which makes Ms Lloyd stop in her tracks.

‘Who’s there?’

Rob and Jay exchange a worried glance. Rob has to think on his feet. He thinks of the song performed by Contestant 52, which was about the ghost that used to haunt the school’s photography darkroom. He cups his mouth with his hands and cries, ‘It is I! The school ghost!’ and he mimics the sound of a ghost, howling ‘oooooooh’ in a slightly haunting manner.

Jay shakes his head at him. Rob makes a face as if to say, _Have you got a better idea?_

Ms Lloyd doesn’t look convinced either. ‘Show yourself!’ she shouts at the air. She can’t quite pinpoint where the sound is coming from.

‘I can’t!’ Rob cries in the same manner. ‘I’m invisible! I no longer have need for my human form! _Oooooooh!_ ’

Jay hides his face inside his hands. Ms Lloyd threateningly waves her Dictaphone at the air, her head going this way and that as she tries to find out where the ghost is hiding. She hasn’t yet noticed the big plant in the corridor. ‘Is this a _prank?_ Is this because I wrote a bad tweet about the contestant who did a song about ghosts?’

Rob says nothing.

Ms Lloyd turns purple. She flicks on her Dictaphone and puts it to her mouth. ‘December fourth. Let it be known on record that while the Vocational College of Music and Art has grown in my expectations, it still seems to be full of students who like to play pranks on visiting adults. Perhaps it is a sign that I ought not to pursue an interview with Gary Barlow and instead confront the school’s executive head teacher with the childish behaviour of her students. Just you wait till Ofsted hears about this! _Humph!_ ’

Fuming, the journalist heads back into the direction she came from. Rob lets out a sigh of relief.

‘Rob, _honestly_.’ Jay shakes his head at Rob. Once Ms Lloyd has left, he steps away from the cover of the plant pot and brushes a couple of small leaves from his shirt. ‘If you’re going to pretend you’re a ghost, at least do it properly!’

‘Like _you’re_ got such acting skills!’ Rob scoffs.

‘You’d be surprised. I’m actually a _great_ actor, Rob. Did I not tell you?’ Jay smiles mysteriously. There are a lot of things Jason Orange is good at that Rob doesn’t yet know about. ‘Now, let’s wait for Gary to finish his conversation with Mark, shall we? If your suspicions are right, then I feel like congratulations are going to be in order soon.’

‘Can we eavesdrop?’ Rob asks brightly.

‘No.’

‘Not even a little?’

‘No.’

***

Now.

Gary unlocks the door with his key card and enters. He finds Mark sat on the edge of his desk, his legs swaying back and forth; his gaze fixed on the window. He has a look in his eyes as though he is looking at the entire universe. Mark’s always had this strange ability to see beauty in even the smallest things, like the shape of the window beams; or the way the paths on the school grounds all converge in front of the library, forming a sort of star.

It’s one of the reasons why Gary loves Mark so much. To Mark, everything is beautiful. He could find something to admire even on the snowiest, stormiest of days.

Gary almost daren’t disturb him, but he must. ‘Hey, Mark.’

Mark looks away from the window and rewards Gary with a small smile. ‘How did you know I was here?’

‘A student told me.’ Gary digs his hands into the pockets of his trousers, unsure what he should say. He doesn’t want to come across as though he is disappointed with Mark for pulling out of the contest. In the background, there is the sound of people talking. A man and a woman. People who are looking for him.

Gary couldn’t care less. This matters more. ‘I heard you pulled out of the contest.’

Mark nods. In the background, there’s a weird sort of howling sound.

‘Why?’

‘I changed my mind about my song.’ Mark’s not looking Gary in the eye. ‘I didn’t think it was suitable enough. It’s too personal.’

‘What do you mean?’

Mark gives a little shake of his head. His mind is on overdrive. The song he submitted for the contest was so personal that he almost didn’t even dare sharing it with a _friend_ , let along singing it in front of 300 strangers in the auditorium and thousands of people online. His conversation with Naima made him realise there was only one person he wanted to sing his song to, and that person is Gary, who once stepped into an ocean of paper planes for him in this very room, on a day when the school grounds were green, not grey. Green, like the beginning of spring.

Gary had walked into the room – looking for all the world as if he owned it – and spent the next ten minutes making reassuring Mark that a bad lesson wasn’t the end of the world. 

‘ _The students will have forgotten about your lesson by tomorrow,’_ Gary told Mark. _‘Teaching’s basically a sequence of snapshots. Pictures. Some of those snapshots are good, but a lot aren’t. It doesn’t mean you’re a terrible teacher.’_

Mark felt a lot better after that. He always feels a bit awkward meeting new people because he tends to stammer a lot, but he didn’t have that with Gary. Being with Gary Barlow felt as natural as if they’d known each other for years.

Eventually, Gary asked Mark when he had graduated. Mark nervously admitted that he’d graduated only a couple of months ago. He was still new to teaching then. _‘I don’t_ feel _like I’ve graduated_. _I don’t even feel qualified to teach . . .’_

_‘You will. Give it three or four years, but you will.’_

_‘That’s not very helpful,’_ Mark sighed.

_‘I know. Wait till I start getting out my concert analogies!’_

_‘Concert analogies?’_ At the time, Mark didn’t know how famous Gary was yet.

_‘What I always tell new teachers is that the perfect lesson is a bit like a concert,’_ Gary explained, ignoring Mark’s delicately sceptical look. _‘Play a couple of energising songs at the beginning, get people fired up; calm things down a little, maybe have a good chat; then round things up with all the big hits to make sure people still remember the gig when they go back to work on Monday. That’s literally what a good lesson should be like, that.’_

At the time, Mark found Gary’s description of the “perfect” lesson rather ridiculous. But as time went on and he gained more and more experience teaching, he had to admit that Gary was right. A lesson _was_ a bit like a concert, except teachers will never leave a classroom to the sound of applause. The moment the school bell rings, the students will almost fall over each other running out of the classroom. They’ll spend the rest of the week hardly talking to you.

Most of the time, student don’t even _see_ you.

This, perhaps, is why Mark felt so glad to be seen by Gary Barlow that day, who was so handsome and lovely and kind – and who turned out to be quite funny too.

_‘If I brought a confetti cannon to school, a lot of parents would probably complain,’_ Gary had said drily, which made Mark laugh for the first time in ages.

They briefly looked at each other then, and sparks flew. Mark ended up staring at his desk again, which he’d already reorganised a million times for fear of looking at Gary for too long.

He _really_ liked Gary. Gary was kind and clever and reassuring, and he had come to Mark’s aid when other colleagues would just have walked past his classroom not caring. Mark had never been told he was a good teacher before, and there he was, being told that the paper planes on the floor did not matter.

It also helped that Gary was incredibly handsome.

They concluded their conversation with a piece of advice that Mark has since taken to heart. ‘ _It’s that social aspect that made me continue being a teacher even when things are hard,’_ Gary said _. ‘It’s the people.’_

_‘Even the people who throw paper planes at each other?’_ Mark said, staring at the mess on the floor.

_‘Especially those.’_

Mark still thinks about those words daily. Becoming a teacher has taught him that everyone at school matters, from the cleaners to the teachers to the rowdy students in the back row who spend the entire Creative Writing lessons staring at their phones. He has learned that there is always a legitimate story behind a student not doing any work. He has learned that setting your students online exercises will never replace meeting them face-to-face. He has learned that there is no truth to the saying “those who cannot do, teach”.

Mark has also learned that he could never love anyone more than he loves Gary Barlow. What started out as a small seed in a classroom filled with paper planes has bloomed into the most beautiful love he has ever known. It’s why he decided to compete for the contest; he wanted to make him and Gary official. He wanted to make them _real_.

So, when Gary asks him, ‘What do you mean, your song is too personal?’ one day in December, there’s only one thing Mark can do.

Mark reaches into the pocket of his trousers and takes out a piece of paper that he tore out of his red leather journal before he ran out of the auditorium half an hour ago. He puts it on his lap to flatten out the creases. He looks at the paper, hesitates, then hops off his desk so he and Gary are both stood in the classroom facing each other.

‘The lyrics I’m about to read to you are part of the song I was going to perform,’ Mark says. He can feel a lump forming in his throat. ‘I think if you hear them, you’ll understand why I pulled out.’

Gary can see that Mark is trembling. He smiles uncertainly. He feels nervous, but he doesn’t know why. ‘Okay.’ His voice sounds small. He doesn’t know what to expect. He can hear two sets of footsteps walking past the classroom. He pushes a desk in front of the door so they won’t be disturbed by a fellow colleague with a key card and listens to what Mark is about to tell him.

The lyrics Mark reads to him are the most touching lyrics he’s ever heard. They describe every single moment of their courtship – good and bad – in exquisite detail, from the clothes they were wearing when they first kissed to the colour of the sky during their lover’s tiff in Amsterdam.

The way Mark has written about them has brought a tear to Gary’s eye. ‘Mark, these lyrics are _beautiful_. It’s a winning song, this.’

Mark shakes his head at that. His piece of paper – the page he’s torn out of his red leather journal – is shaking inside his hands. He has to blink away tears. He looks like he might as well fall over, he’s trembling that much.

It makes Gary smile uncertainly. He thought the lyrics Mark was reading to him just now were beautiful – so why is Mark trembling as though he’s just read aloud a death sentence? ‘Mark, what’s wrong? You’re shaking like a leaf . . .’

Mark has grown considerably paler throughout their conversation. He sniffs a little. ‘I s-still haven’t read y-you the second v-verse. It’s the r-reason why I pulled out of – of the contest.’

Gary listens to Mark with a grave, puzzled expression on his face. He tries to smile, but at the same time he feels suddenly bowled over by fear. Why does Mark look so nervous, and what on Earth does it have to do with his second verse?

‘What do you mean, your second verse is the reason you pulled out?’ asks Gary. ‘It can’t be _that_ bad, surely?’

Mark doesn’t instantly reply.

‘Mark, what is your second verse about?’ Gary almost whispers the question. Outside, snow is falling down in thick, heavy clumps, blurring the view from the window. The sky has turned darker than ever.

Gary’s brain feels equally blurry. _What is Mark not telling me?_

He thinks back to the last few weeks they’ve shared. They’ve had fun. They’ve woken up together every single day, finding each other’s body parts easily underneath the covers; pulling each other close in a drowsy kiss in the dark. Just the other day, they were talking about going on holiday again together next month; not to Saint Élise, but to Paris, where all the lovers come.

_They’ve had fun,_ Gary reminds himself. So why does this situation feel so grave? Why does it feel like everything as he knows it is about to change?

At last, Mark seems to find the right words. Gary inhales sharply in anticipation. He looks scared.

‘The reason I —’ Mark’s voice comes out as a croak. He swallows hard and tries again slowly. ‘The reason I pulled out of the contest . . . the reason I why I didn’t share my song in the end . . . was because the second verse . . . is a verse . . .’

Mark’s throat closes up before he can say what he wants to say. Gary takes his right hand and squeezes it. It feels sweaty. ‘It’s okay. Whatever it is, you can tell me.’

Mark nods bravely. Some time passes before he speaks again. He looks out of the window for a second as if looking for inspiration.

Then he looks at Gary again, and finally the inspiration strikes.

Mark sinks onto his knees on the dust-covered floor then. Inside, his heart is hammering fast like a rabbit running. He doesn’t have a ring, but he has his voice.

The words spill from his lips. He reads aloud the remaining verse of his song with clarity, not nerves.

It’s a verse about _marrying Gaz._

Mark looks up, tears in his eyes. He concludes the reading-aloud of his song with the only words he can say. ‘I know I forgot to bring a ring with me and – and that this room isn’t perfect and that I probably should have thought this through a bit more, but – Gary Barlow, will you marry me?’

Gary’s answer comes instantly. ‘No.’

‘No?’

‘I mean, yes! But no!’ Gary joins Mark on the floor on his knees, ruining his trousers with dust. He shakily removes a ring box from the pocket of his trousers and opens it. Mark’s teary eyes go as wide as saucers. ‘I wanted it to be _me_ to do the proposing, not _you!_ ’

Mark feels a shiver of excitement and confusion running through him at the sight of the ring. It’s a diamond ring, just like the one in his dreams.

‘The rooftop,’ Mark whispers. ‘You tried to propose to me then, didn’t you?’ A statement, not a question. ‘And breakfast in bed. I could tell you wanted to do something special then too, but I couldn’t figure out what.’

Gary nods. ‘I’ve been trying to propose to you for weeks. I gave up in the end, it was so difficult. I started to wonder if I was doing it wrong. I kept me ring box in me pocket for weeks, hoping for a moment that I feared would never come.’ He can feel tears of joy pricking the back of his eyes. He lets them fall freely. ‘But we got there in the end, didn’t we?’

Mark chuckles. He feels a joy unlike any he has felt before. He’s dreamt of marrying Gary for months, not realising Gaz has had the exact same dream.

He almost daren’t believe it. To Mark, marriage always seemed like a faraway dream. He assumed Gary being a pop star made getting married impossible.

And yet here they are.

Is he dreaming? Mark pinches his arm to be on the safe side. His arm feels comfortingly real and solid.

Outside, the snow keeps falling.

He can hear voices outside the door. The sound of Gary breathing. A clock ticking in the background.

This is happening.

Mark feels like his entire soul is about to jump out of his body like a frog, he feels that happy. ‘Does this mean . . . you’re saying _yes_ to marrying me?’

Gary looks down at Mark’s face. It occurs to him for the first time that Mark is wearing the same outfit he had on when they first met in the staff room. He is struck with a lightning bolt of inspiration.

‘Hang on.’ Gary gets up from the floor then, leaving Mark hanging for an answer. He heads to the teacher’s desk. He takes a single piece of paper from a pile on the edge of Mark’s desk and writes something on it using a blackboard marker. He starts folding up the paper artistically.

Mark gets up uncertainly. He can’t see what Gary is doing; Gary has his back turned to him. ‘What’s that, Gaz?’

‘Your answer.’ Gary holds up his creation.

He’s made a paper plane, much more beautiful than the ones that were left here by students nine months ago. Gary flicks it off it into Mark’s direction. It flies into Mark’s open hands in a straight line.

Mark unfolds the paper plane with shaking hands. His eyes make a sudden transition from confusion to joy.

‘Yes,’ he whispers, reading the word on the paper plane out loud.

‘ _Yes._ ’

Before the word has so much left Gary’s mouth, Mark has thrown his arms around him in a big hug that smells of expensive soap. It’s not the most romantic place in the world for an embrace – the mess from the previous day’s lessons is still on the floor –, but who cares? It’s their best hug ever.

‘I’m so, so happy, Gaz.’ Tears are streaming down Mark’s face.

‘Me too.’

Gary kisses Mark’s forehead, lost for words, but filled with happiness regardless. It seems quite fitting that Mark ended up doing the proposal rather than him. After all, Mark’s never needed big gestures or rooftops; or the grandeur of breakfast in bed. The only thing Mark’s ever needed is his words, scattered as they sometimes may be.

‘We’re forgetting one thing,’ Gary says, when they’re done hugging and smooching. He takes out his ring box once more, the treasure inside it nearly forgotten. ‘You still need to put this on.’

Mark looks at the ring with big eyes. ‘Can I?’

‘It’s yours, mate.’

‘But it’s so . . .’

‘Shiny?’

‘I was going to say v expensive.’ Mark tries on the ring anyway. It’s a perfect fit. Light bounces off each of its tiny diamonds. The ring itself is quite stark and minimalistic, silver in colour, but the gemstones are the brightest things Mark has ever seen. He touches the ring with his right thumb and index finger, feeling the diamonds against his fingertips. ‘It’s beautiful. I’m sorry I couldn’t get _you_ one. I didn’t even know I was going to propose, you know.’

‘Did you not?’

Mark shakes his head. ‘It was all sort of last-minute. I talked to Naima – you know, from the Songwriting course – about my song and relationships and that you don’t always need big gestures, and it kind of occurred to me then that I didn’t want to perform my song for all those people in the auditorium. I wanted only _you_ to hear it. So I ran off and came here to catch my breath, and I realised that doing what I’d written about – marrying _you_ – would make me happier than anything in the whole wide world.

‘I’m not even sure if I ever cared that much about the contest, you know,’ Mark goes on. ‘It took me a while for me to sort of realise that the only thing I’ve ever wanted to win was your hand in marriage. I’m glad it worked out.’

‘So am I.’ Gary kisses the ring on Mark’s finger. Mark flushes. This is the best day ever. ‘What will you do now, though? In terms of your music, I mean.’

‘I’m gonna do it on me own terms, I think. No contests, no people from Dorypol records – just me and me guitar and me red leather journal. I don’t want a shortcut. Besides, I – I know it’s taken me a while, but I can finally say that I’m an all right teacher,’ Mark adds. ‘I might as well focus on getting even better. But, again – I’m sorry I didn’t get you a ring.’

‘I don’t care. You gave me your song. That’s better than _any_ ring, that. C’mere . . .’

Just as Gary is about to lean down for a quick smooch – their first-ever kiss as an engaged couple – they can hear a shuffling outside the door. More footsteps. A person whispering Gary’s name.

It’s a painful reminder that Gary, too, ran off. He left the auditorium in an absolute state of disarray. People will be wondering where he’s been. He reckons Kim and the rest of the crew will be pretty angry with him. People on social media will think it’s all a publicity stunt.

Gary’s newfound joy makes place for a sudden panic. How on Earth is he supposed to tell his crew – and the audience – that he ran out of the auditorium – pausing the contest – to look for his boyfriend?

Mark can see Gary thinking it. He takes Gary’s hand and kisses it, just like Gary has done previously. Outside, it’s still snowing. A white layer has blanketed the school grounds. The library, the gravel path and the on-campus Starbucks café beyond have all disappeared in a thick layer of snow. Mark thinks about all the times they’ve had to disguise their love in those very places, and a decision is made.

‘No more hiding, Gaz. Please.’ The ring on Mark’s finger glints in the light.

Gary swallows. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I am if you are.’

Gary considers this. Keeping his love for Mark secret felt as if he’d just written his best-ever song only to be told by his record label that he could never release it.

When you’re an artist, you’re constantly torn between sharing your art and keeping it to yourself. For the moment you release a song, that song is no longer yours. It becomes the soundtrack to a girl’s first kiss; or the song that a stranger plays on his way to work. It will remind some listeners of good times and bring others to tears. It’s why Gary never shares what his songs are about. It’s better to keep fans guessing so that they may give the song their own meaning and make it their own.

But when it comes to his private life, does Gaz really want to keep Mark secret for the rest of time? Does he _really_ want to keep living a life of secret rendezvous and looking over his shoulder? Does he want to ask Mark to hide away his engagement ring?

No. No, he does not. Mark isn’t like one of his songs. Mark isn’t a vague lyric in a verse. Mark is his fiancé. This is something you share, no matter what people think of it.

‘Okay. No more hiding.’ Gary feels a weight being lifted off his shoulders. He mirrors Mark’s broad grin. He still feels like he’s living inside of a dream. ‘Tell you what, though, we’re going to have one hell of a wedding. I could invite Elton John!’

Someone chuckles right outside the door then. There’s the sound of a hard _thump._ Shuffling feet.

‘Maybe we should check out who’s stood outside the door before we start putting a guest list for our wedding together,’ Mark points out. His mouth curls at the corners; he thinks he knows who it is already.

Gary shoves the desk out of the way and opens the door.

Rob and Jay tumble into the classroom, red blushes on their cheeks. Clearly, they were eaves-dropping.

‘We weren’t eaves-dropping!’ claims Rob, standing straight. His ear looks red from being pressed against the door. ‘We were just admiring the door, weren’t we, Jay?’

Jay purses his lips. ‘No, we were eavesdropping. It was Rob’s idea, not mine.’

‘ _Jay!_ ’

‘I can’t lie to my friends, Rob!’

Mark and Gary both chuckle at the comically cross look Rob gives Jay.

‘Oh well.’ Rob sighs, then laughs too. He looks at his mates fondly. They’ve heard everything Mark and Gary were saying, of course. ‘Permission to hug and congratulate you even though you haven’t formally told us you’re getting married yet?’

‘Permission granted,’ says Gaz.

Mark nods. He smiles his delight as Rob and Jay give them each a robust hug.

‘Congratulations, Mark,’ Jay says. He looks thrilled for them both. ‘And I’m sorry for eavesdropping. I’m afraid Rob here insisted.’

‘No, I didn’t!’ cries Rob. ‘I just happened to stumble into the door. With my ear.’

They all burst out laughing, and it’s as if someone has pressed “pause” on the world. For a moment, everything that’s happening outside these four walls does not matter. What matters is this; laughing with mates, a ring glistening on Mark’s ring finger. The contest will continue when Gary says it will.

To make the scene even more perfect, Howard and Katie just happen to walk into the classroom then. Mark and Gary tell the couple the good news, smiling with their entire bodies.

‘It took you long enough!’ Howard says.

Katie punches him in the arm, and the six of them burst out in another fit of giggles.

Meanwhile, Mark has pocketed Gary’s paper plane in the small envelope in the back of his red leather journal. He looks at it fondly. It feels like they’re come full circle.   
  


# |LESSON FORTY-ONE: THE TRUTH AT THE CONTEST|

Ms Lloyd the journalist has been live-tweeting about the contest ever since it began. Her notifications on Twitter are going wild. This is what she’s written in the past forty-five minutes:   
  


**_T.A.B. Lloyd_ ** _@thatlocaljournalist 44m  
Contestant 69 is about to perform. Rumour has it he’s a teacher._

**_T.A.B. Lloyd_ ** _@thatlocaljournalist 43m  
Plot twist: Contestant 69 has PULLED OUT of the contest! Unprecedented scenes. _

**_T.A.B. Lloyd_ ** _@thatlocaljournalist 37m  
@garybarlow has just RUN OUT OF THE AUDITORIUM. _

**_T.A.B. Lloyd_ ** _@thatlocaljournalist 35m  
Everyone in the auditorium is in SHOCK. The production crew have no idea what to do. I wonder if it’s a publicity stunt? Members of the audience are leaving. Lots of complaints from the couple next to me._

**_T.A.B. Lloyd_ ** _@thatlocaljournalist 30m  
I don’t think it’s a publicity stunt. The contest’s fellow organiser looks out of sorts. No-one has seen @garybarlow for the past five minutes. _

**_T.A.B. Lloyd_ ** _@thatlocaljournalist 28m  
We’re currently being subjected to an impromptu duet by @rickastley and @lulushouts. It’s not terrible._

**_T.A.B. Lloyd_ ** _@thatlocaljournalist 25m  
Still no update about where @garybarlow is. _

**_T.A.B. Lloyd_ ** _@thatlocaljournalist 23m  
I’ve snuck out of the auditorium. I’m going to look for @garybarlow myself. I wonder if there’s something serious going on. Could be an interesting story. _

**_T.A.B. Lloyd_ ** _@thatlocaljournalist 15m  
Really weird scenes at the @vocationalcollegeofmusicandart just now. Was looking for @garybarlow when I suddenly became the victim of a prank. Apparently students here think it’s FUN to pretend they’re GHOSTS!? _

**_T.A.B. Lloyd_ ** _@thatlocaljournalist 10m  
Forget it, I’m going to look for @lulushouts. I wonder how she’ll react when I tell her that her students are all pranksters. Might write an article about this._

**_T.A.B. Lloyd_ ** _@thatlocaljournalist 4m  
I’ve made it back to the auditorium. @lulushouts is refusing to do an interview with me about the prank I was just the victim of. Still no sight of @garybarlow._

  
The journalist has returned to her seat none the wiser. No-one wanted to do an interview with her, and she couldn’t find Gary Barlow anywhere. She’s in the middle of posting another tweet when the auditorium goes weirdly quiet. She looks up from her phone.

She looks down at the stage, cocks her left eyebrow and types another tweet.

  
**_T.A.B. Lloyd_ ** _@thatlocaljournalist 1m  
@garybarlow is back. He’s on his own. I wonder if he’ll tell us why he left?_

  
Gary returns to the judges’ desk to complete silence. He sinks into his seat next to Lulu, who smiles at him protectively. He adjusts the microphone in front of him. The spotlights are shining into his face. Mr Gavin – his fellow organiser – has a grave expression on his face. The presenter of the contest, who usually sticks to his cue cards, has no idea what to say.

Gary clears his throat. ‘I should probably explain why I left just now.’

The crowd makes a collective sound of agreement. A camera zooms in on him.

‘I think I know already,’ Lulu says. She smiles. ‘You were worried about your friend, weren’t you? Contestant 69? Mark Owen?’

‘I was, yeah.’ Gary lets out an exaggerated sigh. The crowd goes “aw”. Several women in the audience swoon. ‘D’you know what, I hate it when artists suddenly decide they don’t want to take part in something anymore. It always makes me worry, that. Me and Mark are quite close, so I had to check out how he was doing for myself. I should have said. I’m sorry.’

‘How is he?’ Mr Astley asks. ‘Is he going to perform still?’

‘He’s all right, yeah. He’s a bit rattled – I think you scared him off with your outfit, Rick!’ The crowd laughs. ‘I don’t think he’s going to perform anymore, though. It’s not for everyone, this kind of event. I just feel sorry I was away so long! I mean, I heard bits of your performance backstage, Rick – I hope people haven’t stopped tuning in!’

More laughter from the audience. Just like that, Gary’s absence is forgotten.

‘On the contrary,’ says the presenter of the contest, a famous guy Dorypol records hired to tie the whole thing together. ‘We’re being watched by 90,000 people online.’

Gary huffs. ‘Well, that’s funny, that. So once I went away, more people started watching? Thanks for that.’

The crowd bursts out in a collective giggle. Backstage, Mark, Howard, Jason, Katie and Rob all watch the scenes from behind a curtain next to the stage. Mark feels proud; Gary can entertain and manipulate a crowd like no other. It’s so easy to make a crowd believe one thing when you actually mean another.

Gary hasn’t confirmed their engagement outright, but he’s done the closest thing to it. _No more hiding_.

After Gary has run out of jokes, the presenter points out that it’s getting close to nine in the evening and that the judges should probably announce the winning songs. He asks the judges how they’re going to do it if they didn’t have the time to discuss it in Gary’s absence.

‘I’ve three songs in mind that I want to have on my album for sure,’ Gary thinks out loud.

‘I’ve got _one_ big favourite,’ Lulu says.

‘So do I,’ says Mr Astley. He glances at Lulu’s notes. ‘And I know it’s not Lulu’s.’

‘I do too,’ Mr Dorypol says. He crosses his arms. ‘And I have a feeling my taste deviates from everyone else’s. _Hm._ ’

That settles it. The guest judges will each name their favourite song, followed by Gary naming his own three favourites. In less than ten minutes, the contest that Gary has spent several weeks worrying about will be over. Gary’s fifth studio album has been saved. The school is back to its former glory.

‘This is so exciting,’ Mark whispers backstage.

‘I hope one of our first-year students will win,’ Jason whispers.

Rob shushes them both. ‘Mr Dorypol is about to announce the first song!’

The judges each announce their favourite songs. Mr Dorypol names the song written by Mr Norton, one of the school’s teachers. A lot of students in the audience cheer while Mr Norton walks on stage, blushing rather. Mr Astley names a ballad performed by a school alumnus. Lulu’s personal fave was a song performed by a sixteen-year-old girl. The winning acts are all asked to gather next to the presenter. They all look thrilled.

Then it’s Gary’s turn to name _his_ favourites. It’s the ultimate accolade.

His first favourite was another ballad, this time performed by the dad of a Fashion & Textiles student. The dad falls over his own two feet the moment he enters the stage. He clearly isn’t used to being in the spotlight, but his song was tremendous.

Gary’s second favourite was a song Mr Dorypol hated.

The crowd waits. Gary’s about to announce his final favourite song.

It’s Naima Aygün’s.

Backstage, there’s a shriek as Naima’s name is announced. Naima has just been pulled into a very solid hug by her best friend Mimi.

‘Naima, you absolute genius!’ It takes Mimi some persuading to let go of her best friend. She artfully dabs her right cheek with a handkerchief as Naima leaves for the big stage, ready for the applause. ‘Please don’t forget that I was your best friend before you became famous! Oh – and do give me your autograph when you come back!’ Mimi pretends to weep dramatically.

Now that Naima has joined the stage, the six winning songs have officially been announced. The crowd bursts out into cheers and applause.

Gary looks fondly at his six winners. It’s over. They’ve done it.

Would he feel even prouder if Mark was amongst those six winners? Perhaps. Perhaps not. After all, are he Mark are not tonight’s biggest winners of all?

***

The contest ends with a reprise of all six winning songs. 95,000 people are tuning in when Gary and the other judges enter the stage for one final bow. The applause in the auditorium is deafening. Even Ms Lloyd, who did not manage to interview Mrs Kennedy-Cairns about her ghostly prank, ends her thread of tweets about the contest on a positive note. She loved the whole thing really.

As the curtain goes down, the school website nearly crashes due to heavy traffic. Hundreds of young prospective students from all over the region are trying to sign in for a course at the Music department. Clearly, the contest has been a resounding success. There are already talks of doing the contest every year, with Mr Astley potentially being next year’s head judge. Thanks to everyone’s efforts, the school has finally returned to its former glory. It’s been so good that everyone has simply forgotten about Gary running out of the auditorium.

After all the guests and volunteers have left the building, the teachers from the Music department gather in the staff room to celebrate the success of the contest. All the important people are there: Mr Norton, Mr Stevens, Mr Ben Mark, Ms Brooke, Mrs Donald, Mr Astley and Gary’s mates, of course. Gary asks them to gather round a table filled with champagne and other festive treats that Rob has secretly been nibbling.

Gary waits for silence. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.’ He exchanges a nervous glance with Mark, who is biting his nails; very much showing off his diamond ring. ‘It’s about why I ran out of the auditorium. Mark, will you join me?’

Mark takes a deep breath as he starts towards the other side of the room. His walk is not a long one, but it’s made more difficult by his wobbly legs. He can see his colleagues looking down at the ring on his finger as he walks past.

He nods at Gaz, who nods back with a nervous expression in his eyes.

He swallows, takes a deep breath and grabs his boyfriend’s hand right in front of his colleagues.

‘We’re an item,’ Gary blurts out without flushing or stammering.

‘We’ve j-just gotten e-engaged,’ Mark adds, flushing and stammering very much.

The room goes silent. The rest of the school is empty. The only sounds are that of an old fridge in the staff room groaning and buzzing. Outside, on the school grounds, every sound is being absorbed by a thick layer of snow.

No-one speaks for a while. Mark can feel sweat running down his back, he’s so nervous.

‘Guys . . .’ The first word comes from Mr Stevens, the saxophonist. Mark looks up. ‘We’ve known for _ages_.’

There are agreeing murmurs from Mr Steven’s fellow colleagues. Mark’s heart skips a beat.

‘I once saw you walking out of the archive room together,’ says Mr McDonald.

‘I nearly walked into the two of you snogging the other day,’ says Mr Pomeroy.

‘You’re constantly staring at each other during staff meetings,’ adds Mr Norton.

‘Some of our students know too,’ Ms Brooke the English teacher points out. Today, she is wearing a Rick Astley T-shirt. ‘They’ve started referring to you two as, _er,_ “Owlow”, I believe.’

‘“Owlow!?”’ Mark lets out a hysterical laugh. For already the second time that day, he feels as if he has fallen asleep and entered a dream world where everything is upside down, like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole.

Learning that his colleagues have always known about their relationship comes as a massive shock, of course, but it also feels like a weight has just been lifted off Mark’s shoulders. He can finally live out his love for Gary in the light instead of having to hide it. It’s quite wonderful really. Slowly, Mark begins to smile.

Gary feels a bit annoyed that he didn’t realise sooner. He thinks back to all the times he and Mark have had to snog in secret. ‘You could have told us a bit sooner, guys! You’ve no idea the trouble we had to go through to keep everyone in the dark. It wasn’t that nice, was it, Mark? Keeping secrets?’

‘I think I prefer everyone knowing,’ Mark nods. He looks at each of his colleagues, filled with happiness and relief. He thought his colleagues would respond completely differently, perhaps even leading to them being fired. ‘I was worried everyone would judge us, you know, what with me and Gaz being colleagues, so I’m really relieved that you all sort of seem to support us. I’m grateful.’

‘You’re not the first VCMA couple,’ Mr Steven points out. ‘Right, Howard?’

‘At least me and Katie wasn’t almost caught snogging!’ Howard replies. ‘But it’s true; you’re not the first couple, and you won’t be the last. These things ‘appen.’

‘I personally think it’s beautiful,’ Jay adds. He smiles at Rob, who looks away blushing.

‘I’m a bit worried about the guestlist for our wedding, though,’ Mark says. He counts all his favourite colleagues in his head and comes away with a list of about twenty names. ‘It’s going to be a long list!’

‘Good thing I’m such a good party planner then,’ Gary responds smiling. ‘I know quite a few big castles where we can hold our wedding reception.’

‘A castle, Gaz?’ Mark looks sceptical.

‘You don’t like the idea of a castle, Mark?’

‘Not really!’

Although Mark’s response makes everyone in the room burst out laughing, to Gary they might as well be alone. They could be surrounded by a hundred people or more, and he’d still look at Mark as if he’s the only person in the world. They will always be intimately connected to each other no matter where they are in the universe.

The rest of the evening is a happy blur of champagne and congratulations. Afterwards, when he and Gary are on their way back to the car, stepping into a foot-deep layer of snow, it occurs to Mark that he’s the happiest he’s ever been. He’s happy not only because he’s finally gotten engaged or because he’s got a shiny diamond ring displayed on his ring finger, but because of all the people who’ve made it happen.

He thinks of Rob, with his PowerPoint presentations about Gary. He thinks of Howard, with his coffee and his advice. He thinks of Jay, who would never judge anyone. He thinks of Mr Stevens, who kept their secret. He thinks of Ms Brooke, with her boy band T-shirts. He thinks of Mrs Kennedy-Cairns, who has always been there to support them.

To Mark, his colleagues might as well be family. A slightly dysfunctional one, but still. Family.   
  


# |LESSON FORTY-TWO: MR BARLOW|

When you’re engaged to get married, it’s tempting to only look forward, not backwards. It’s tempting to spend the entire evening of your proposal looking up wedding venues online and making a guest list.

Not Gary. On the day of their proposal, he finds himself looking back to previous moments constantly, thinking about old memories with Mark while making new ones. He thinks of their trip to Amsterdam. He thinks of when they made love for the first time. He thinks of that time when he and Mark exchanged texts during a staff meeting. He thinks of the video he sent to Mark, the one that featured him exercising. The video that Mark later admitted he’d jerked off to. Most of his favourite moments from the last eight months feature Mark Owen.

Even as Gary and Mark stumble into their bedroom to celebrate their engagement, Gary finds himself relieving their very first kiss. The memory comes to him as clearly as if he were seeing it now. The kiss had been in the auditorium. They were supposed to be attending a boring staff meeting.

It wasn’t Gary’s first-ever kiss, but might as well have been, Gary was feeling so nervous. His heart was hammering inside his chest. He felt light in the head. His body was shaking as he felt Mark’s hands on his thigh.

Even as Gary felt Mark’s lips parting against his own, he felt himself wondering if he was doing it right and if his crush was enjoying it as much as he was.

Interesting, isn’t it, how different their kisses are now that they are engaged? They’re no longer nervous; no longer careful. They no longer have to question what they do. They no longer have to touch each other carefully for fear of doing the wrong thing.

Their first kiss in the auditorium was great, but tonight’s is better.

As the bed in their penthouse dips and creaks underneath their combined weight – songs from the contest still playing in their heads – the boys are all but nervous. They know every sensitive spot on each other’s bodies; every scar and blemish that deserves kissing. Gary knows exactly where he has to kiss Mark if he wants to hear him moan.

They have a lot of celebrating to do, and therefore a lot of scars and blemishes to get through kissing. From now on, they are an item. An _official_ item. They no longer need to hide in dark auditoriums or dusty archive rooms. They can do whatever the fuck they want whenever they want it.

They might as well fuck accordingly. 

The love they make on Friday night – the day of the contest – is almost like a dress rehearsal for the big evening ahead: their wedding night. Their movements are sweet like the boys themselves. They take it slow so they can drag out the evening forever.

Even Gary’s strokes – slow moves up and down Mark’s prick with his fist – seem to match their joint desire to live in this moment forever. He kisses every part of Mark’s body he can find, moving slowly from Mark’s exposed neck to the sensitive spot on his inner thighs.

Tonight, they don’t need words. All they need is Mark nodding at Gary unblinkingly, and Gary pushing inside of him as he has done nearly every other night, filling Mark with warmth.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful to always be engaged? To have Mark Owen’s nails digging into your skin always? To always have Gary tilting you to the edge, telling you he loves you as he makes wave after wave of pleasure wash over you? To always feel Mark’s warm body wrapped around your prick? To always look at the engagement ring on your finger as if it is brand new?

If they could, Mark and Gary would make a snapshot of this night and look back at it every time they so desired. From now on, every time Mark hears the bed creaking and groaning as Gary fucks him hard, he’ll be reminded of getting engaged; and the joy he seemed to feel in his body constantly since Gary slipped the diamond ring on his finger.

It’s still on his finger now, glinting in the candlelight as they switch positions and Mark rolls over on his side.

It’s not such a romantic position really, and yet it is. The ring makes it so. Gary whispering “I love you” as he lifts up Mark’s right leg with his bare hands makes it so. Even the way he grabs Mark’s hair – pulling it from behind; letting it slip through his fingers – seems suddenly more intimate than before. More than ever, Gary is aware of every moan that slips from Mark’s mouth. More than ever, Mark relishes the sight of seeing Gary’s large hands touching his body.

More than ever, they seem to know exactly what to do to make the other come.

It’s as if getting engaged has somehow made them weirdly more aware of the feelings they have for each other. It’s given them a sense of acknowledgment; permission, almost. After all, is that not what marriage is, in the end? It’s a formal acknowledgment of who they are and what they mean to each other. The song they have spent the past eight months writing together has finally been allowed by the universe to be released, and it is easily the best song in the world.

Like any good song, Mark and Gary’s is one of twist and turns; of building crescendos set to a pulsing melody. Tonight, their song is an increasingly quick one. It goes through a cacophony of tempos, even changing genres every now and then.

Only when the song reaches its final verse does it finally slow down, allowing the boys to take stock and slow down themselves. They smile at each other one last time – Gary’s gaze flickers to the ring on Mark’s finger – and the song climaxes softly and quietly, leaving a trail of wetness on Mark’s tummy. Mark smiles his million-watt smile – looking only a little dazed – and their previous song makes place for a new song in the playlist.

If he could, Mark would write two verses entirely dedicated to the way Gary is looking at him now, wiping the cum off the tattoo on his skin. He’d describe it as familiar yet new. For this is not the first time Gary has wiped him down with a towel, and yet there’s a certain newness to it. Getting engaged not only makes things official but better too, like a diamond ring that has been polished up; a beautiful thing made even more beautiful.

Mark doesn’t think he’ll ever get sick of it. He will love Gary always, and he’ll pinch himself whenever he remembers the two of them are to be married. The newness will never fade.

Afterwards, the boys cuddle up to each other on their king-sized bed. The lights are off; they’re getting ready for bed. Mark is glowing, of course.

Gary, meanwhile, can’t seem to stop grinning, with his grin getting a little bigger every time he sees Mark’s ring on his finger. Every now and then, Mark holds up his hand so that he can see his ring up close. It’s the only thing he’s wearing: underneath the covers, they are quite naked. The only light in the room is the city lights outside their bedroom window; a million stars smiling back at them.

‘I still can’t believe today actually happened, can you?’ This comes from Mark.

‘I think this is the best day I’ve ever had, this,’ Gary agrees. ‘Just brilliant.’

‘You know what _I’ve_ been wondering?’ Mark pulls up his bedsheets so that Gary can only see his face and a small glimpse of his neck. He runs his hands through his hair, a flush spreading across his cheeks. ‘You know when we get married and we sign the official papers, will we take on each other’s names?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, if we get married, will I suddenly be Mr Barlow? Or Owen-Barlow?’

Gary looks a little stumped, like when a student asks him a particularly difficult question. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it, to be honest. It’d be a bit confusing, though, having two Mr Barlows at school. Students might think you’re going to teach them piano lessons.’

‘ _Hm_.’ Mark plays with the ring on his finger. He starts staring at the ceiling as though it is the most interesting thing in the room.

‘Unless . . . you _want_ to take me name, Mark?’

Mark rubs his nose. ‘I just think it’d be nice, you know, taking your name. And you can’t take _mine_ , cos you’re a pop star, aren’t you? But it _is_ something I do wanna seriously consider. If only because it would _sound_ good. And I suppose it – I suppose it would feel good too.’

‘And you don’t think it would confuse students, having two Mr Barlows?’

‘They wouldn’t be more confused than usual. Students sometimes call me “Miss” by accident. And the other day, a student spent an entire lesson thinking I was Mr Williams. Mr _Williams!_ ’ So I don’t think it would make much of a difference.’ Mark shrugs. He does that thing when he’s trying to act like he doesn’t really care about something. (But he actually cares very much.) ‘Just think about it. We don’t _have_ to do it.’

It seems they have reached yet another moment of newness. Gary knows Mark intimately, and yet he’s just been presented by something he did not yet know. Something new and unexpected; another surprise on a day already filled with them. Mark wants to take his name.

Is this what getting married feels like? Newness mixed with familiarity.

‘You really want this, don’t you?’

‘I do,’ Mark says, echoing the two words he knows he will one day speak. ‘More than anything.’

Gary feels a flush of warmth hearing Mark say that. He pulls his lover closer. He practises saying Mark’s new last name on his tongue and finds it surprisingly easy, like trying on a brand new but perfectly tailored suit.

In other words, it fits Mark like a tee. It actually seems like a rather lovely twisting and turning of their shared history; for when they first met, Mark didn’t dare calling Gary by anything but his last name. Now, he’s on course to make that name his own.

Forever.

‘Mr Barlow?’

Mark tilts up his chin proudly. ‘ _Yes?_ ’

‘Let’s see how much this bed can take, eh?’

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with this story for the past 494907 years. <3


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